Sleeping in a driving truck isn't easy, that I can assure you. Especially with a driver who can't stop talking. In this case, however, he wasn't the only one. He was talking to two people who kept speaking in questions only. One asks something, the other replies with another question. Burton tried to strike up a conversation with them, but it turned out to be useless. I only just picked up the radio's microphone and asked those two: "You guys ever answer a question?". With this, they stopped talking.

At long last, we've arrived in Indianapolis. Or if you like, Indiana's own metropolis. Who comes up with all these names anyway? But anyway, I thought of checking my e-mails, but I can't seem to find anything that's open today, so I guess I just have to wait until tomorrow.

Monday, July 14th 2008:

I woke up in a hospital, having but very little knowledge of what happened. All I know is that I was walking through the city, minding my own business, when suddenly an old pay-phone rang. I was the only one near it, so I decided to answer. I don't know who it was I had on the line, but he knew me. He knew about my trouble at customs, the missing couple,... he even knew that I was the last one who saw that Scott guy, who's found dead by now, not to mention he knew I somehow disappeared from Maine, only to reappear again in Ontario. He'd love to know how I did that last bit, but that wasn't why he called me. He wanted me to know that none of my deeds went unnoticed. The authorities would have figured this out long ago themselves if they knew where to look. I was about to hang up on this guy, but then he got me convinced that he's keeping a watchful eye on me. Or should I say a red eye on me. He has a sniper rifle, with one of those lasers on them, making it easier for them to point. I wanted to think of a way out of this, but I was too tired to think of anything. I thought of using my bag as a shield, but then he allowed me to listen to something else. I don't know how he knew about everything else, nor how he knew about Jess, but he's got her hostage. Upon hearing her voice, which got muffled away shortly after, I tried to convince him of what really happened at those times he mentioned. That is, I told him everything apart from the incident in Maine. I hoped he'd forget about that one once he heard there's a logical explanation for everything else. But he didn't forget. I told him he wouldn't believe me if I told him. He said "Try me!" and so I did. I also added that if he doesn't believe me, he can ask the one that drove me out of Ontario. He said he did, but upon hearing that they told him I was a spy, whom they asked to leave the country quietly, I knew he was lying. This got him that hot tempered, he threatened to shoot Jess. Then... I have no idea of what happened exactly.

I do remember the dream I had. I saw that man with those knive-sharp nails again. This time, he used that caller's voice, and a mock-version of Jess's. I didn't think I'd see that man again, in any form or other, but I did. I thought of telling myself that all this is only a dream. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to listen. It was like he was a figment of somebody else's imagination, therefor beyond my own control. He even managed to cut me there where I was shot before, or at least close to it. And I had to go through a book in order to have that healed, I thought to myself. Still, that man, who kept calling himself Freddy, didn't stop there. He still tried to hurt me more than he already was, in every which way a man can't do in real life. I don't know what made me have this guy reappear in my dreams. Perhaps it had something to do with all the weird, and scary things I've been through ever since I arrived here. I tried to think of all those times. Other than that sniper-caller, there were those mountain men in West-Virginia, that bat-guy in Gotham City, the crocodiles in New York, and that old woman who fell for me. When that woman started to seduce Freddy, he didn't know what to do. It made me laugh out loud, after which I turned my back on him. I could feel him trying to strike me, but he disappeared before he could.

Although I was awake after that, I was still tired, so it didn't take long before I fell asleep. Though I do feel I must write this down as well. I don't know if it was a dream, or whether it really happened, but a man was in my room. He had to speak for me to recognize him as that sniper-caller. Other than telling me that he never really had Jess. I'm not sure if I heard him right, but from what I understood, he told me that he did talk to her, and because of that he was able to clone her voice. He also said that judging from what he read in my journal, he didn't know what he should think of me. But he did know that I'm too much of an idiot to waste a real bullet on. He complimented himself for deciding to use a rubber bullet when he shot me.

Something weird. When I went to take my journal out of my bag, which didn't look like somebody had taken it out, other than the pain in shoulder I noticed another pain in my arm. I didn't think much of it until now. I was healed on that arm, but now the wound's back. Strangely, it was exactly there where I remember that Freddy to have cut me, which was right underneath the spot where I was shot (in Miami, that is). Did Freddy really cut me? Or did that sniper-caller think of cutting me, which I integrated into my dream? I didn't care, as now I feel I've rested enough.

I don't know why, but the doctors just let me go out of the hospital, without charging me. They even spoke to me as though they didn't know how I got there in the first place. They didn't even call me by my real name, of which I was sure they'd know it by now. I don't know what was going on, perhaps I was lucky that this hospital has such bad administrators. Or does that sniper-caller have something to do with it? If so, why would he want to kill me, only to save my life afterwards. Okay, Voorhees would do the same, but only because I promised him I'll leave him alone. Why would this sniper do it? If it was him at all?

Oh well, I suppose I could try and figure that out all I want, I won't come up with a real answer anyway. Besides, I should really be thankful, as now the cops can't get to me, asking me all kinds of questions which I can't answer. On top of that. I'm in a car driving out of Indianapolis, and the driver doesn't like it that I'm writing something rather than talk to him. He claims to have seen many strange things in his life, but a person who'd rather write than talk? If you ask me, he's the first one to be bothered with me writing all these things, so who's the real weirdo?

I'd better stop writing.