I’ve never been sure what actually happens when night falls. The drum has sounded since April, which summons them to kill and mutilate us. It’s now June, and the nightmare has taken on new forms. At least I think it’s the darkness doing this, or them, the faceless ones. Two nights ago, street lights and cars beamed about the neighborhood’s stale shadows. They looked, sounded, and even smelled real. I could taste their exhaust drift all the way into my shed. It was sour, smoky, and full of oil.
I never thought I’d miss the taste of pollution.
I know it can’t be real. How could anybody think the world would just come back to life when the sun goes down? I wanted to go out into the night, even with the drum and monsters. Seeing those fragments of civilization, of the pre-drum world, it clouds reality. They make the night feel heavy, and empty of symmetry, like a deep dream.
Last night, the images became even bolder. Lights turned on inside dark houses. Shadows moved back and forth in their windows. Husbands, wives, moms, dads, and children bustled through windows cooking and preparing. Every room in the houses surrounding my shed glowed with the same ghostly orange as the streetlights did. I also noticed inside the rooms the lines of invading plants were absent, like they’d never bored their way through the siding or shattered windows.
The people in the rooms were fuzzy and without much detail, even with the light. The monsters need to refine their strategy. They can’t throw all these abominations at us and expect our forgiveness.
Still, I want to run out to them. I want the windows and hot water. I want to see them, to commiserate with them, to weep away the darkness.
The father I ran into yesterday with his children and dog. I understand their situation, but I still can’t justify his reaction to me. I’m sure he saw my form when I bolted through the exit doorway. The daylight blinded me as I ran through, and I’m sure I had an excellent silhouette for him to see with his long rifle.
I feel like there aren’t many people left anymore, even if we’re all in hiding. Paranoia and madness are a couple of backburner problems compared to these unnamed monsters stalking us on a nightly basis. The man shot at me without yelling a question or warning.
His gunfire did all the talking.
Now I’m worried if Snowy and I wander too far away from my house he’ll shoot us with his rifle, or his beast of a husky will rip my wrist apart and I’ll die of an untreatable infection.
Snowy and I stayed within a block radius of our house today. I walked down to Gerald’s house to see if he’d returned. I yelled into his house in a more muffled tone, but still, just a silent doorway and plant-eaten walls answered my calls. I’m starting to wonder if Gerald wandered too far out one day, and this guy with his rifle shot him dead. This father didn’t seem explicitly crazy when I watched him from afar yesterday, but it was concerning that he hadn’t bothered to bathe himself or his kids. After all, there happens to be a lake across the street from the grocery store. My freshly shaved face hasn’t started to grow plants yet, so it must be safe water.
Snowy and I are wearing our Kevlar vests at all times now. I didn’t want to weigh down Snowy with this little Kevlar sock I made for her, but the armor might be the only protection.
I guess I’ve always been paranoid about her safety, just not my own.
Today, I read the Hobbit some more. It has been very distracting. Tolkien came up with such fabulous names for everything. I can’t figure out how he did it. Wargs, Gollum, all these great titles and names. They embody the characters and species they represent.
I wonder if anyone has thought of a name for our nightly demons. Could they really pick a fitting word for something we don’t even understand, or have touched before? I think the monsters will always be unnamed.
The Unnamed, yes, that has a certain ring to it.
Thank you for reading my work. To learn more about the Greenland Diaries hit it here. The monsters are incredible.
Patrick W. Marsh 