Friday, May 27, 2016


Aren't hard drive failures just the best? What's even better is that in the time between the failure a few weeks ago and buying a new one the other day, I've had plenty of time to compile my notes.

-There's a family of seven that always leaves in threes, and it seems they have to be invited back into their own house. Strange family tradition?

I have to doubt it's just a family quirk. Why wouldn't the adult at least have a key?

-The same car circles the block every day at the same time.

Creating the image of normalcy to account for some variation in my daily schedule?

-Fake plants in the garden, watered daily at the same time.

Again, creating the illusion of a normal suburb.

Why go through all the trouble? Why not just have real plants?

There's more, but I'm keeping those on physical paper for the time being. I've begun noticing errant patterns elsewhere in town. The dollar theatre hasn't updated its selection since I moved back, despite several blockbusters coming and going at the major theater next town over.

Of course, I've begun catching familiar glimpses out of the corner of my eye when I stray too close to the woods again. I hope he didn't think I'd discounted his role in my life just yet.

Sunday, May 1, 2016


Four times per day.

That's how often the sullen old man across the street waters his plants. Plants made of synthetic fibers and paint.

A yellow car from the 80s drives around the block thrice before pulling out onto the main road. Every morning, at 8 AM sharp.

Six of the ten houses on my street are either couples with no children or singles living alone, like myself. I've been told a common symptom of various psychological disorders is seeking a pattern where none exists, cherrypicking the evidence to support the conclusion.

I've spent all week observing the same patterns emerge, day after day, timed to the very second. Not even the world's most punctual worker with obsessive-compulsive disorder will circle the block three times and pull off to their commute at exactly 8 AM, not a second after the clock turns, and be gone by exactly 8:05.

Which begs the question, why uphold the illusion of everyday suburbia only to allow erroneous patterns to emerge? I highly doubt it's something so elaborate or conspiratorial as them all being paid actors to help me reintegrate with society. Not when I've known many of these people since childhood--or at least, I've known of them, memorized their faces, and never thought to question their routines before the events of this past year.

Methinks someone's mask slipped and they've forgotten to fix the strings.

Thursday, April 21, 2016


Five years. I spent five years having doctors tell me my war against the Faceless was all in my mind. Five years maintaining a facade, putting on a mask and pretending that yes, of course, they were right, and I needed help. I spent five years with many sleepless nights, gazing out a barred window and seeing the nemesis to all humanity standing outside the institution, writhing tentacles reaching through the gate, quivering with longing. Five years hearing the screams of the irreversibly-broken as they, too, laid eyes on madness itself.

These are not five years I will look back on in my golden years with fondness and nostalgia. Even now, I wake up every morning and slip on a mask. Just the quiet girl whose doctors are helping her. That's who my neighbors see--a murderer trying to reform, to put her life back together. In a way, they're not wrong. I realize now, in retrospect, how far I'd fallen and how many cognitive biases I'd erected, barriers hastily cast to shield myself from the reprehensibility of my deeds.

There's a word that eludes me, that ultimately led to my current situation. The Lovecraftian urge to continue writing even as one is being devoured, against all logic. I posted public confessions to unthinkable crimes. How could the police not act when they were inevitably sent in? I was on the run with a small group when the police came for me. The others escaped. I had neither the energy nor the will to evade both man and abomination.

I don't know why the Faceless did not come for me during my brief stay in prison as I awaited trial, or in the institution while I wore a mask and played the part of the tragic protagonist in a play gone horribly wrong.


I'm stalling. I finally mustered up the courage to read the final posts on Re... Ray's blog. I don't know why. Even when I was permitted supervised time on the internet, I avoided his blog like the plague. I knew through other means that he'd died. I didn't want to know the specifics. How do you make yourself read how your best friend dies fighting the monster you've run yourself ragged fighting, then skirting outside the notice of, then fighting again?

But Dr. Connell is right about one thing. I don't get better by shielding myself from the truth. I don't heal by maintaining the masquerade, dancing with my partners and insisting I'm something I'm not.

It's time to put the mask down.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016


Don't mind the removed posts. False starts, misled journal entries from a time when I wasn't myself.

It's been years. I don't know what possessed me to look this blog up again. What drives me to resume painting my thoughts on a blank white canvas, when simply logging in invites risk. Mayhap there's a story to tell yet.

Maybe I just can't let well enough alone. Maybe none of us can, and that's what drew us to the board in the first place, six years ago.

Sunday, March 6, 2011


Life in the Sullivan household has been quite hectic of late. Cathy, Ava, Reach, and Tony, all under my roof, apparently with an old friend on the way.

That being said, not all is sunshine. I've been helping a lot of runners out far more than I used to. That's a double-edged sword, especially with the current upheaval in the Black Knights' power structure. If I help one side, I have to help the other.

So far I've been able to keep the impact to a minimum, because the direct aid I've offered has been kept to a minimum. I won't be able to play my hand that close for some time.

I say what I'm about to say fully knowing the impact it will have on your trust in me, presumed reader. Due to offering several runners and fighters shelter in a house free of the Black King's presence, Eulogy--a Black Knight mentioned in the White Rook's blog, during our transcribed discussion--paid a visit and demanded information on Jeff and Cheska's whereabouts. A deal is a deal, and that meant being balanced in all things.

I'm sorry, Cheska. Unlike the last Knight-Commander, I can't doubletalk my way past Eulogy's inquiries. That's how they found you.

Friday, February 18, 2011


Long has Roanoke been a mystery. Theories abound, from alien abduction to outbreaks of the undead.

Roanoke was once, according to the memoirs of one James Raleigh III, Labyrinthed and the site of a war between the Black King and the colonists.

According to his memoirs, it began when one Rudolph Winston Church was tried and convicted for the brutal abuse and murder of the Carlston twins, Rebecca and Dorothy. Half-Mad, he was led to the gallows screaming about "the faceless man, I swear on the Lord's name it was him!" He continued to rant and scream until the rope stretched taut.

However, the next night, one Ester Church, the late Rudolph's wife, reported their seven-year-old son Johnathan missing, and he wasn't found for several more days. Mr. Raleigh described the sight in his memoirs as "absolutely horrendous, the work of a man possessed by Satan or worse. The boy had been opened from chest to stomach, his entrails spread about the ground, and his body impaled upon a tree. Ester fell to her knees with a wail," and funeral arrangements were made, slowly.

A courier was sent to the nearest garrison to seek aid from the King's Men, only, two days later, the courier came riding up to the colony from the opposite side, seeming confused. There were no redcoats with him.

More will come as I read through his memoirs, to be sure.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011


Not intentional at all, simply a matter of having had quite a bit to do recently.

The Spectator ran into the Fallen Queen at a supermarket. The Queen showed no hint of recognition, the Spectator felt it best not to see how thorough the Black Bishop's shoddy work is. There was no trace of the Black King, which leads the Spectator to believe that at least for now dear Shayde hasn't been brought back onto the board.

The Spectator has a new guest. Cathy, the mother of the young Pawn causing so much uproar of late. We've cuddled a fair bit while studying up on the Black King. I've begun researching various plays written by those haunted by the Black King to see if I can be of any help to the Knight of a Dead Tongue. And just to indulge myself some, she is extremely comfortable to hug for long periods of time.