The Shadow Over Innsmouth
I tried to go to sleep again this mi=orning. I came out to the living room and lay down on the floor byt he window. Tried ot get the sunlight to cover my whole body.
Seeing the wehite selenite tower Id placed there broken into chunks and scattered across the floor scared the shit out of me. I didn’t even sweep it up˰ I just pushed it all under the showroom sofa.
Lately I've been feeling like I'm stuck in someone else's story. Like H. P. Lovecraft is writing my life, and he is making it as sick and mAddening as he possibly can. I used to adore LovecrAft. I guess there is something fascinating about things that are so horrible, you can't even fully comprehend it. Then I found out he was SUPER racist, so yunno. Fuck that.
I still can't help but feel like I'm trapped in one of his stories. The more i\ learn about this neighborhood, and this house, the more I feel like I'm the student who stumbled upon the town of Innsmouth. Except you could tell immediately that Innsmouth was decAying. BonnidAle, however, feels as though it's rotting from the inside. All these perfect houses, and people, and streets. Beautiful on the outside, but the inside has already begun to putrefy.
I can’t stop thinking about the video Monica sent me. The squirrel in the trap. I got an email back from her with just an open-mouth smiling emoji in it. I never paid a lot of attention before, because she was just saved in my contacts, but her email is firstname.lastname@example.org Is that weird????
I don’t think i can do this anymore.
I feel like the squirrel.
I’m getting out of here. This case is over.
Bonnidale over. \