THE FOLLOWING IS A DIARY ENTRY FROM EMMA, STARTED ON OCTOBER 18, [XXXX]. THIS MARKS THE BEGINNING OF THE MOVE AGAINST THE [REDACTED] CULT.
--File 024: The Plan--
10/18/XXXX
Dear Journal,
I don't know if this is a stupid idea. I'm currently sitting in the back of a comically old gray sedan; Detective Anders is driving, and Blaine is in the front seat, checking over his collection of charged camera batteries, charging cables, rechargeable double and triple-A batteries, and carefully going over everything for a third time with Anders.
My mom gifted me this journal last Christmas. I hadn't touched it. I'm one of those people who loves journals, but then you get kind of afraid to "ruin" the journal, so you wind up never writing in it- or worse, you finally convince yourself you have something worth writing about, fill two pages, hate what you wrote, and then hide the shameful journal.
Not this time.
I think I've got something worth writing. I think I'm also really scared, and a part of me wants to leave something behind, something that explains what we're doing. I mean, I guess that's what Blaine's camera can do, too, but it's digital. I feel like something handwritten would be nice to have, on top of the camera footage.
Yesterday was a whirlwind. After figuring out the game's secret, it hasn't budged, though I'm keeping an eye on it AND it's not allowed to be in the same room as me when I'm sleeping or showering. Not that saying that has worked- wherever I go, the game follows. I can't get rid of it, even if I wanted to. Turn around, and bam, there the stupid thing is.
That timer clicking down every second is a nightmare. Less than three days, and the next puzzle will begin. If this timer is three days, though... Does that mean Wynona didn't complete the first puzzle? Did she fail? She was only gone for three days, but I guess it's entirely possible that she had the game longer than that.
We don't really know. There's a lot of things we don't know about what's going on. The stupid game's about to click down to 48 hours, and I'm hoping nothing happens from that.
We're racing across the states, from Los Angeles, all the way as far North-East as possible, to [REDACTED]. That's where Grantham is from. That's where we're hoping we'll find answers.
Anders is hoping to get there in less than 3 days. He says that ex-FBI Agent, Bartosz, is meeting us there. He's totally geared up to the nines, but the locals don't like him, so he's actually staying one town over before we get there. He wants to touch base, but he's actually not going in with us- "Too high profile", he said. I think that just means he's tried too many times to get answers out of the local people.
Once we get there, Bartosz says we're going to meet with his other contact, a Priest that's been trying to figure things out in that town for a long time now. He's too old to keep up the fight, but he's got a Protege who is very interested in finishing things with... whatever is happening out there. Bartosz got vague, claiming he felt like he was being spied on, and then he hurriedly hung up, presumably to go looking for whatever could be watching him.
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It feels surreal. It also feels like this is what we're supposed to be doing. I have this weird feeling of Deja Vu doing this, like I've dreamt this before, or... something. I told my mom that I couldn't be at the University anymore with everything going on, and she said she understood, but then she also told me to "bring condoms", because... I think she assumes Blaine is coming with. Mom never was a huge fan of Keith, though I know she won't say it now. She thinks Blaine and I are dating.
I don't know what we are. Partners in crime? Partners in death? Partners in... fly related serial killer madness?
I don't know if I want that to be realistic, actually, so scratch that.
I've been thinking about the game and what it represents. This is telling the story of Jake Grantham, that much is for sure. It's talking about his past. Grantham or someone else made this game to catalogue the reasoning behind the killings, or at least the origin point of the serial killer. That begs the question: if not Grantham, then who made the game, and why?
I d
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The journal entry ends abruptly, with pen ink splattering the rest of the page. The next entry seems to have been written just a short while later. This next entry begins rather more abruptly.
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Jesus. JESUS. Oh, my God, if you're out there, what the HECK?! I have never been so terrified in my LIFE.
I was just writing my stupid journal entry, and then all of a sudden, the counter on the stupid STUPID game hit 48, and some kind of insane trigger was let off, and it started POURING maggots!
I screamed, Blaine shouted, and Anders nearly ran the car off the road. Thank GOD we were super close to a pitstop; I scrambled out of the car, and Blaine- always on the ball, always super cognizant- he helped get them off me immediately. I swear, those horrible things were climbing me, trying to get to my mouth, probably. I hate that visual, hate hate hate hate- there's no shower anywhere near me, and fuck, I need a shower. I need one. I need it so bad.
Don't think about it. Don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it don't don't don't don't
Blaine got them off of me, and Anders dragged the game out of the car, which was still just exploding maggots everywhere, the horrible nasty things. We couldn't leave them- we know what these things evolve into. We smashed them into oblivion, all of us; I think I was screaming by the end of it. We had to dig through the car to find some more, and there's a good chance we missed some, which is just going to be an AWESOME fucking discovery later. These things are demented, evil, and vile; we can't leave them just lying around for anyone to find. The other five people at the rest stop looked like they were thinking about calling the cops on us.
This is actually horrible. My nerves are frayed, but somehow, I keep having this feeling like I've done this before, so I just... keep going, even though I don't want to. This sense of familiarity is wild. I haven't told Blaine about it at all.
We're driving again, and Anders and Blaine are significantly quieter. I can't tell they're worried about me, Blaine especially; he keeps looking at me in the rearview mirror.
I hate my stupid hormonal brain. I'm literally being targeted by supernatural demon insects that would love NOTHING more than to burrow into my body, just so they can eat their way through all my guts and flesh, and my stupid, stupid, stupid brain is over here like "...Does he like me?"
WHY WOULD THAT MATTER, BRAIN? Keith's in the freaking HOSPITAL, his guts filled with flies, and I'm over here in a car feeling Deja Vu and getting the hots for the cute loner boy with the camera. This isn't High School, Emma, it's college, even if some of the people there still want to pretend it's high school.
I need to get a GRIP. This is so much more important than all of that.
Maybe writing in this nice, pretty journal was a stupid idea. Like how insane does all of this sound? Who the hell would pick this up after I'm gone and go, "Yep, this really happened!"
Yeah. I'm SO sure.
-Emma
The journal is signed off with a rather furstrated scrawl. In the beginning, Emma's writing is somewhat slow and cautious, with a perfectly legible scrawl. As the journal entry progresses, however, her writing begins to get more harried and anxious, and the next entry is altogether messier than the entirety of her first.
It is clear that something is amiss in the entire situation, and Emma is struggling to come to terms with the particulars.