Thank you for joining me as my character, Harlow, falls deeper into despair, cursed occurrences, and madness. If you haven’t be sure to start from the beginning by clicking here.

Event 4: The Library

I stared down at the journal with its damaged cover and warning. I wish I had heeded that warning now.
In my own journal, I made notes about anything I could think of that might give me a clue about the journal, the entity I’ve been hearing and seeing in my dreams, and the situation I am in.
The entity…the common thread that links all this strangeness together. The only clue I have to it is the mad scribblings of the journal.
The Tall One. The Shadow. The Hunger. The Trickster. Those and other epithets. Then notes – perhaps it is all in my head. Perhaps it is something I gave life to, we gave life to, all of us…just by believing, by playing. An egregor. A servitor of some dark subconscious mind.
I took my notes and headed to the library to try and make sense of the madness I was reading. Where did the ramblings of a mad mind end and the terrible truth begin and is it the same?

“The word egregore is Greek in origin and is derived from égrégoros, meaning “wakeful” or “watcher.” The word is found in the Book of Enoch wherein it is described as an angelic being.”

“The main themes of this book—held in common by many mystics, practitioners of the occult, and even Christian fundamentalists—concern two hundred “fallen” angels, their interbreeding with human women, the subsequent creation of a race of giants (Nephilim) whose destruction in the biblical Flood receives mention in Genesis, and a coming apocalyptic battle between good and evil.”

“there is a second definition, an older, more significant, and perhaps frightening one. Here, an egregore is more than an “autonomous entity composed of and influencing the thoughts of a group of people”; it is also the home or conduit for a specific psychic intelligence of a nonhuman nature connecting the invisible dimensions with the material world in which we live. This, in fact, is the true source of power of the ancient cults and their religious-magical practices.”

I’m not one for christian mythology but whether fallen angel or man-made demon…I don’t care to deal with either. I quickly skipped through these books to try and find the means of which I can break the power of the egregore or angel or whatever on me.

“To free ourselves we need to limit our connection and contact with the members, rituals, symbols, and activities of the egregore and its material anchors to the group.”

“Another option is Therapeutic Blasphemy
The idea of therapeutic blasphemy is, in essence, that Christianity is such a pervasive influence in Western culture that only by a positive and concerted effort can one break free of its pernicious (and largely unconscious) influence.
This conscious desacralization of the dominant religious themes acts as a compensatory measure against their powerful yet very unconscious presence. If done as a therapeutic measure to bring forth and consciously address and overcome the various neurotic tendencies previous teachings have created, it can be a useful tool on the path to self awakening.”

“French alchemist Dubuis was fond of saying, “At the end of Time when you present yourself to the Father, to the Naught, and you are asked, ‘Who are you?’ you will reply, ‘I am freedom.’”

“The Hermetic Tradition recommends the one universal defense against invul-
tuation [creation of images of people for the purpose of magical enchantment]: 
DO NOT SLEEP in the sense of being passive or distracted. . . . (1) Pray . . . 
whoever is fearless is hard to invultuate for any danger; (2) be occupied with 
the defined forms in your consciousness, chosen and generated by yourself, in 
order that something will not be attached to you from outside. . . . Join a certain 
good Egregor, which corresponds to your contemplation, so that you will not 
be entangled with the Chain of a foreign, evil Egregor. . . . (3) Exorcise your 
body reasonably. . . . Therefore do not be that crayfish, retreating to the puddle, 
do not let the wolf and the dog frighten you, and then drops of your blood will 
not be strewn along the paths of service to each and everyone.”
~ The Tarot, Mouni Sadhu (1978)

I stayed late reading. Most of the other patrons had already taken their books and left. The librarian was eyeing me from the desk and looking at the clock.
It wasn’t her though, that I felt watching me from the stacks. I kept jumping at sounds and turning frequently to eye the growing shadows. Paranoid or merely tuning into whatever this entity is that is watching me at all hours?

Event 5: Panicked Phone Call

Video Wizard is closed as much as it is open nowadays. I can’t afford to hire more help but I also can’t always bring myself to open shop. A few people have commented on it – mostly Old lady Richards. I barely acknowledge them anymore.
Wade came in today, all smiles as he returned The Stuff and The Blob. He invited me to his movie night for Nightmare on Elm Street 1, 2 and 3. “Come on, you look like you could use a night of gore and popcorn.”
He’s right, I’m sure.
I thought about what the books said. Removing myself from the symbols and energies around the entity. Perhaps isolation and wariness were only feeding it. I agreed to attend.

It was hard to concentrate but by the third movie, most of the other attendees had filed out and only Wade, his little brother Charlie, and a couple of the teens from the local AV club, and I remained. Wade and I talked about horror films and as we argued over Possession’s finer artistic points, things began to actually feel normal for once.
Wade walked me home. There was an awkward moment at the door where it felt like he might try and kiss me. Thankfully we just awkwardly hugged and I waved him off before he left and I went inside.

I glanced immediately at the journal upon entering my apartment. It’s become a ritual. Check on the journal. Has it moved? I could have sworn I left it over there…how did it get here…am I losing my mind? Yes.
I frowned at my own paranoia and glared at it. “You have no power over me.” I tossed it in the back of the bottom drawer of my dresser and got into my pajamas.

The phone is ringing downstairs. I should just leave it. We’re closed. Something in my gut told me to answer it. My subconscious…the Entity’s presence sitting in my gut…it knew.
“Video Wizard. We’re close-”
“Harlow! It’s coming!”

Dear Jakob,

Wade died last night.
I heard it all on the phone.
He was at the payphone over by the gas station. Earl found his body…I was still on the other end of the line, crying.
The police said it looked like some sort of animal attack. Asked if I could make out anything when he called. I just said he was screaming…it was the truth.
That’s when I found out about Carl Simkins. Found mauled to death by something over by the old school. They couldn’t figure it out but told me not to go out alone at night and report any animals I might see.

I didn’t tell them Jakob. Not about the key that has Carl Simkins’ blood in the cracks where I couldn’t wash it all off. Not about the entity or the journal. Not about the message Wade…no…not Wade…the Entity through Wade’s lips as he was dying – the message it had for me.

Keep Playing Harlow. We’re having so much fun.

Egregore, maybe. It doesn’t really matter though, does it. I can’t stop playing the game…its too strong to just ignore. I have to find a way to protect the people around me…

Event 6: The Abandoned Place

Dear Jakob,

Video Wizard has been closed since Wade’s death. No one blames me. No one says anything really. They just give me looks…the same looks they give stray dogs with ribs showing through skin. Perhaps too much of me is showing through skin now. I feel bare. Raw and chafed even. My eyes hurt from crying so I can’t cry anymore. Not even that is permitted to me now.
I’m looking at Kirby’s photo album.
It’s a wonder that man had tenure. The absolute madness he encouraged in our art. I think his praise, tetanus shots, and Luke’s terrible alcoholic punch was all that was keeping us alive in those days when we were spelunking in urban and rural abandoned buildings. All those places that nature and chaos were taking back.
Made for great photos. And you…you turned every photo shoot into art. They still talk about your work at the galleries…they miss you out there in the world.

I keep dreaming of the old hospital. It was Jakob’s favorite place. He did a whole gallery show with just photos and art and collages focused on it. The pre-depression era mansion turned hospital turned asylum turned decrepit haunt for teens looking for a place to fuck, do drugs, and scare each other around Halloween.

It was beautiful in its decay and Jakob was in love with it. Many of our nights, smoking pot and lit by the silvery light of old Hammer horror films, were spent listening to Jakob day dream out loud about buying the place. Never fixing it really, perhaps just a couple of rooms in the back to live in but letting the rest stay as it is. Living art, living in art.

In the dreams, Jakob is there. Wade too. Sometimes Carl Simkins and sometimes Chloe Shapr with her dark lipstick and red nose. Always, the Entity trails me down mouldering hallways and around pits in the floor full of velvet shadows and the promise of a quick and messy end.

The urge to go to the old hospital hit me strong the first cold night we had. Perhaps it was the promise of autumn. Perhaps it was the shadows of my apartment looming in on me as town kids peered through the store windows downstairs, wondering if I’ll ever open the doors again so they can lose themselves in plastic film dreamlands.

I pulled on a sweater, grabbed my keys, the journal, and Kirby’s camera. If I was gonna trudge up ghosts by looking at an album, I might as well go all out.

Its foolish, but as I drove up the brown pavement and through low stretching kudzu that had taken over much of this space…I half expected to see someone, something. Like Wade amongst the leaves or the Entity more likely, watching me from the shadows of the dying sun.

No.

The old hospital was just as I had last seen it. Empty. Surrounded by shoddy chain link fence and with the front doors padlocked shut. Plenty of notices against trespassing, danger, and so on. The dangers that place has in store for me are much worse than lock jaw, asbestos in my lungs, and a broken ankle however.

I climbed the fence without much grace and entered the building through a side window that put me in one of the open rooms that was once long ago a parlor then a visitors wing then a room for therapy or group sessions or whatever One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest shit went on in the 60s.

I wandered the desolate rooms and halls, searching for answers. Despite having the camera out and ready, I didn’t take any photos. I couldn’t summon the joy I once had in capturing the light and aesthetic here. There was no one left to uplift them with blade and tape and paint and glue.

I thought I knew this place by heart. Perhaps it just felt that way because I was always with the guys. Jakob knew the hospital well enough to traverse it with his eyes shut. Perhaps I just knew him by heart and that was how I made the mistake.

The hallways turned Labyrinthine. Corridors seemed to reshape and fold back around. Doors that I was certain were there before, disappeared. I headed towards the exit signs and whisps of graffiti I remembered but they led me in circles.
After hours, I stood in the darkness of the belly of the hospital. “I’m lost,” I admitted to the shadows. They seemed to enjoy the admission.
The flash on my camera that I used to see, flickered, faltered, and went out at hour five.
I stood at the bottom of a stairwell that lowered me into an impossible fifth sub floor.
The darkness pressed in on me and I wasn’t sure if my eyes were open or shut as I gripped the bannister for dear life.
I knew then. The hospital…Jakob…the Entity had called me not to show me some answer, but to devour me.
I heard screaming and it took far too long to realize the screams were coming from me.

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