JOURNAL
I'm writing this letter because I honestly believe I am going to die here. I don't know what will happen to me, but I just want to record the events that have happened to me in case anyone finds this.
(Background info: My name is Ron Peterson. I'm 22 years old and I live in Tacoma, Washington.)
I remember the events that transpired today remarkably well. This morning I was sitting alone in my apartment watching TV, when there was a knock at the door. Well, more of an anxious, impatient pounding. I got up to answer it and, when I opened the door, in front of me stood this ragged, meth-head-looking guy, with shaggy, messed-up hair and a hunched-over posture. The guy's clothes looked like he hadn't washed them in a year and his skin was all pitted and scabby. It seemed that he had been picking at it. A lot.
"Um... Yes?" I greeted nervously.
This abomination of humankind just stood there, hunched, staring at me. Other than a deep, nasally breathing, he stayed silent. He simply stood, swaying slightly, his eyes wide like a goddamn zombie. Then the creepiest thing happened.
His mouth slowly morphed into a smile.
I stood there, confused and terrified, at whatever the hell was on my doorstep.
And then, quick as lighting, he pulled out a discolored washrag and thrusted it against my face. The fucker was chloroforming me!
I tried to hold my breath once I realized what it was, but it was too late, for the initial gasp of shock was all it took. I quickly blacked out.
Later I woke up in what I assume was the back of a van or something. I had some sort of black sheet or sack over my head, preventing me from seeing, but I could feel the motion and the bumps in the road. I nearly threw up, which wouldnt do jack for smell. We stumbled down some stairs and into a very cold room, possibly a basement. I tried to speak to this sorry excuse for a human being, but the velvet sack prevented me from expressing any intelligible language.
Suddenly he fiddled with something on the back of my neck - probably untying the sack - and pulled it off of my head. Before I could react, a hard object slammed into my back and sent me flying off of a small stone platform near the door and onto the concrete floor. I slid a few feet across the floor, the wind knocked out of me. A door behind me slammed shut as I lay there, facedown, struggling to regain my breath. When I finally did I flipped over onto my back and took several deep breaths. I then sat up and examined my surroundings.
As I suspected before, I was in a basement lit only by a single dim lightbulb that hung suspended from the ceiling. The room was empty, save for the built-in water heater in the corner (though it looked too old and rusted to actually still work), a couple of cardboard boxes sitting against the wall opposite the door, and some weird black boxes that were attached to the corners of the ceiling. They look like speakers.
I'm still sitting here in this cold, dimly-lit basement as I write this. I'm pretty terrified. I hope, if something happens to me, that whoever's reading this can hunt down this sick bastard. I guess I'll try to sleep now.
God dammit, I can't fucking sleep.