I just wanted my god damn dog back.
There'd been talk of bizarre happenings in the town I lived in. A stranger in outlandish clothing had rented a room at the Wheel; the curtains were pulled ever since he took the room but during the daylight hours we could all hear some kind of twangy string instrument bein' played, not unlike the sitars that group of travelling entertainers had brought with them last spring.
All the plant life around the playground behind the schoolhouse was dying or dead. A few of the boys from the factory checked it out one night, told the rest of us that there weren't even bugs round there. The dirt's all dry, there's this stench comin' from the big hollow ladybug the kids used to play round... Heard a couple of the older workers talkin' about that kid that up and disappeared a couple of weeks ago. Johnny's brother, actually. Only seven years old. Don't know who could've gotten past the wall without someone noticin', but someone did and now we're down one.
Didn't pay much mind to all this talk. I've kept myself to myself ever since I arrived in this town, smack in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. It's quiet, and the people leave you alone if that's what you want. The only company I ever kept was my dog Omar. He was a black Labrador, got him when he was just a pup. Cutest little bastard you ever saw. These days he was gettin' on, not as hyper as he used to be, but still the best company I could as for.
The doctors back in the City had put me on more kinds of pills than I could remember, shit that would make me shiver and sweat, vomit and void, once there was some sorta combination that made my ears bleed every time I lay down. All to combat The Sickness. They had no idea what the hell it was I had picked up so they had no idea what would help, and by god did it show. And the whole time I was on them pills, The Sickness just got stronger and stronger, the weird blue haze creepin' in on the edges of my vision, and the bright red veins slowly raising along my chest but, wait, veins aren't ment to form in geometric patterns, are they, doctor?
Wasn't til my old workmate, wouldn't call him a friend but that comes close, asked if I wanted to smoke some marijuana he had just picked up. I was deep in the throes of The Sickness by then, had to throw on a jacket to cover up the squares and octagons poppin' up all over my arms, and the world was washed in a blue mist. But one hit on the crappy joint the kid rolled and it all just..... just washed away. The burning pain on the back of my neck that signified when shit was gettin' quite bad vanished in minutes. It was around that time that I made the decision to abandon the City. Told my doctors to fuck off. Told the one or two people who'd want to know where I was goin'. Took right off.
So the night Omar ran off on me, I was over at the backroom of Viola's, where all the less-than-strictly-legal shit went on. The old timer that grew the shit in his shack by the lake was already there, with my order all nicely wrapped up and ready for sale. No need to check the weight, Daniel was a good guy. One quarter pound of his finest kush.
On my walk back to my cabin at the edge of the woods, I passed by one of the watchers. These guys were everywhere, even back in the City, but far more common out here in the edge towns. Creepy bastards. There were always conflicting stories about them, where they came from, what the hell they did. Who they were. Who they used to be. I didn't think to much about them ever. They all looked about the same; fairly tall, short gray cloaks, thick, heavy lookin' boots and gloves. Each and every one of 'em liked to keep their faces hidden in some form or another, in fact that's where the idea they had some sort of hierarchy among themselves. Most of 'em used nothin' but tattered scarves and bandannas, always the cleanest white you ever seen. Then every now and then you'd see some with clearly defined masks, sometimes in the shape of some sorta animal, sometimes just blank white. I remember the watcher that hung about my old block back in the City, he always wore this nasty lookin' number with a long, thin birds beak. Yeah, there were quite some stories bout that one...
I passed one of the towns local watchers and I swear the creepy fucker looked right at me, and the small patch of Sickness veins on my chest that never quite disappeared just erupted. Never felt pain like that before and god willin' I never will again. I collapsed to my knees, clutchin' my chest like I was tryin' to keep my insides inside, my vision just completely blanked out with an impenetrable blue. It was over in a few seconds if my watch was anything to go by, but it felt like it lasted a lifetime. When it went it was like it never happened, but I was sweatin' bullets and could hardly stand. I struggled to my knees and my hand went to the pocket stitched into the inside of my hunting jacket, grippin' the handle of the old switchblade I'd kept on me, lookin' round for the masked bastard that I was sure was the cause of this flare up.
No one. Not a soul around me. In fact it was dead silent, normally there'd be birds or somethin' chirpin' about. Not a sound.
This random attack had completely obliterated whatever defense the marijuana built for me against The Sickness, so there was the all-too-familiar blue haze at the edge of my eyeballs, I could feel the raised shapes of the veins on my chest... Shit. I had enough cash to get by, and Daniel was a fair man, but this medicine I smoked wasn't just pricey, it was necessary. I didn't like havin' to med up so soon, but I sat there in the dirt, pulled out my rollin' papers and whipped up a joint. Stood up on shaky legs, lighting it up as I walked along the dirt road that led to the woods.
I could tell somethin' was off as soon as I unlocked the front door. Omar was far from the overly-active pup he used to be, actually the old bastard hardly made any noise of any sort these days, but he always had a presence to be felt in the house. I knew the place was empty. Called out to him as I walked in, no sound of nails clacking on the bare wood floors.
Front door's been locked all day. No way the old bastard coulda jumped out one of the windows, they're all shut anyhow. The fuck...
Joint clenched between my lips, think trickle of smoke creepin' out of my nose, I turn back around, do a quick survey of the land around my cabin. The old habits kicked in pretty quickly. No noticeable tracks in the dust that took up all the space where the grass shoulda been. The woods the grew out the back of my land looked the same as it always did, just on the verge of completely dying...
What's that.... hangin' from that tree.... Looks like a... body? I walk over to the tree just at the edge of the forest, giant old thing. Strung up on one of the lowest limbs was what looked like a body from the distance, looked like a kid actually. Just what I need. Another mark on my goddamn reputation around this fuckin' town. I got closer and saw the kids skin looked like...... wood? Someone had, for some hilarious reason, I'm sure, decided to string up an old puppet on the tree limb. Quite a joke. Thing looked creepy as all hell. Poorly painted facial features, mouth stuck in a permanent ear-to-ear grin. I stood right beneath it, seein' that even if I didn't get it, Omar goin' missing and some bullshit puppet hangin' round my cabin wasn't some coincidence.
The old training had kicked in all the way at this point. I was gonna find my fuckin' dog.
[This is entry 1 of [REMOVED] in a series of journals received by Private Detective Vasilakis, stationed in the [REMOVED] Sector of Seattle. Further investigation pending.
12/6/[REMOVED]
T. Vasilakis]
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