Wednesday, June 29, 2011

The book is empty. The book is empty and it's in Judith's head and... I've been so stupid. I've been so fucking stupid. It's not my fault. I couldn't have known. I should have listened, but I couldn't have known. I don't know what to do. For once in my life I don't know what to do. It's gone and it's all inside her and I just can't think anymore. It's out of control. Everything is out of control.

I tried to burn the book and the words were gone. The entire notebook is just scratches of red; pages of pages of red ink. I can get to the end now too. It isn't infinite. It's just a normal notebook filled with red scribbles and I know where all of that insanity went and I'm so fucking scared. It's not my fault. It can't be my fault. Not Judith. Not her...

She came over yesterday. I hadn't checked the book yet so I didn't know, I still didn't know. She's still here now, in my room, asleep. Thank god she finally fell asleep. She's all tears and sadness and other things when she's awake so at least she finds peace in sleep. At least she doesn't find herself smiling and then start sobbing because she doesn't know why she's smirking. At least she doesn't see the words everywhere.

She came over yesterday, and she fell into my arms and started talking about how she didn't want to read the book anymore. I asked her what she meant because I knew she didn't have the book so she pulled out a notebook from her purse and said that she did have it. The notebook was the wrong color. I opened it, and the pages were empty. I told Judith that wasn't the notebook. I asked her what was going on. She started accusing me, saying I was lying about not seeing it and I've never seen her so angry or so frightened. I held her, told her I wasn't lying. She started crying again a bit later. I let her go, asked her what was wrong. She pointed to a white blank page on my desk. She said it was there too.

I didn't know what to do. I don't know what to do. I sat her down, asked her to write down what she saw. What she wrote was insane and psychotic and there was too much for one page and it wasn't fucking there and she didn't write in her handwriting. It was his. God, it was his.

I have to go check on her. I have to make sure she's okay. Please let her be okay. It wasn't my fault. I don't know what to do

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Control/Damien's Notebook: Entry 8

So much has changed in the past few days. Far more than I could have ever thought possible.

My parents are still out of work. Mom called me this morning. She asked me again about how I was coping after Brett, about how well my book deal was coming along. I had to lie to her yet another time. I can't tell her the truth. I can't let her know the mess her son is in. Just like her husband, she's going to lose another because of their cursed writing. I told her everything was fine, that I was taking care of things, that I was almost done with the book. She believed me, asked me to come visit again later this week. I'm hoping to have time, but with everything that's been happening, I just don't know.

And then the police held a damn press conference saying they've officially tied together seven different murders in that cursed town, including the mayor's death last month, to a single source. They claim to have suspects, but they aren't revealing any names. I have no idea what's going to happen now over there. I have my suspicions as to who's doing this, but I don't want to get involved. I have enough to deal with as it is.

The situation with Judith has been spotty at best. Every time I think she's getting better, she relapses and starts texting me constantly about the notebook. Two days ago she appeared on my doorstep, demanding to see it. I was able to get the situation under control, and talked her into just going out for dinner instead. Still, even at the restaurant she was totally preoccupied with the journal. I tried to remind her about what she'd been reading, about what she did when she realized it and broke down crying in my arms.

She told me she didn't ever remember doing so.

Now, I finish transcribing an entry and log in to post it, only to see this comment. With those words, I felt like I woke up for the first time from a nightmare. I don't know how long I've been talking so much about "control". I don't know how long I've been having the dreams and not remembering them, but I remember them now. It certainly didn't fucking help when I finally noticed the similar comments on the post about my family, which I don't remember ever seeing before.

You see, since I started this cursed blog, I've been having the same dream every night. I just never remembered them after waking up. Each night, I'd dream about being on a stage, writing in front of a crowd of millions. After some time, I would notice that there was something black tied around my wrists. I'd look up, following the great, dark strings and towering above me was the man. I'd scream, try to jerk away, but he'd keep making me write. When I was finally done, he'd pick up the book in one of his black tendrils and hold it in front of his face as if he was able to read it. Then, a sound of delight, a pain in my hands, a downpour of red, and I would awaken... Awaken and forget.

It's been controlling me. This entire time he's been controlling me and my subconscious has been screaming in my dreams and in my writings and only now do I understand. He wants the story out. He wants the story told. He wants everyone to know of him... And he's using me to do it.

I'm burning the notebook tonight, or burying it, or something. I don't know yet. I have no fucking idea.

I still have this final entry to post and then... then I get rid of this thing for good.


"(No date)

Tree. A red oozy tree. Like it had a bunch of owwies spilling syrup all over. And it had eyes. Trees dont have eyes but this one did and blood and it made my head feel funny. The no face man made it feel funny too but this time it really really hurt. I heard all these voices like they were yelling at me but they weren't yelling at me because they were in my head and it was really weird. They wouldn't be quiet and just kept yelling bad things over and over. Said they all get hurt like this hurt and I don't want Ted and Em to hurt like this so I think they were wrong.

And the blood was all over. I looked up and there was people up in the tree and I think they were dead. There was a guy with metal in his face and a girl with curly fire hair and a boy with glasses and hair like a bush was holding her hand and a guy was hanging with a slimy rope around his head. All dead, dead people like in the dungeon with the no face man.

And then my head started hurting even more but not the voices because those went away it just hurt a lot like the worst pain ever and it hurt so much. I don't ever want to go back in the woods if it hurts like that. Its dark and spiders and no face men and dead people and trees with eyes and crawling green things and blood and guts and fog and I don't want to see it again or get hurt again so I'm never going back in the woods."

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Damien's Notebook: Entry 7

First, Judith is... better. A bit shaken, but better. The "detox" seems to be going well enough. I've blocked her access to this site by playing with her internet settings, so no worries there. Notebook is hidden somewhere she'll never find it... I really hope this works. If it doesn't, I... I'll have to figure out what to do.

As for this title, before some of you instantly start jumping down my throat about putting up another notebook entry, calm down. The notebook is still safely tucked away where I left it. I've transcribed quite a bit of it that I haven't posted here, though. As such, I'm going to put a few of those entries up here while I figure things out.

Why keep posting these? I don't know. It just seems like a good idea. It's taking that cursed book and putting it under my will, under my control. I won't let it change me or what I'm doing. I have this handled.


I miss them all so much. Amelia, Emily, Vincent, Ted, all gone because of me. It's all my fault. Everything is my fault. I did this. I looked into the story, I started writing Watch This City Burn, it was me. It was always me. I've killed everyone I love just by being near them. This monster tore them all away from me. Took away my l

I need to be better than this. I AM better than this. Ted would be laughing at me right now, sitting in my room, crying about him. God I miss him. I he we were always so odd. I never admitted it to him but I could never imagine not having him around. I never told him that sometimes I thought Kiera was

Kiera I wish I could talk to her but I can't kill her to. She's all that's left. Literally the only scrap of my old life. So hard not to go to her while the monster is gone. Apologize for everything and explain what's going on. I think she'd understand.

It's all so futile. Despite all my efforts to keep optimistic on my blog, the despair is creeping in. I'm going to die. All that'll be left is Kiera and Rick and this notebook. I've embraced my death. I gotta keep fighting, but the end is coming. I can feel it. TheArsonist will try and stop it but I think he knows too. Soon I'll be six feet under just like my friends. Just another grave in the cemetery

I should go see them. I think I will. He's not outside anymore. This may be my last chance. I'm going to go see them."

Sunday, June 19, 2011

The Hell Is Going On?

I was finally able to actually sleep last night instead of staying up worrying about what to do with that goddamn notebook, and then I woke up to this.

Rick said... 
Oh great. This is just what I needed to find. Another person drawn into my dead brother's insanity. This is absolutely great. When are you people going to learn to leave well enough alone?
Alex, you seem like the rational sort. There's a psychiatric facility near you. You may recall that my mother was staying there before she died of a heart attack. Perhaps the best course of action is having Judith go in for evaluation? You should do what you can to stop these delusions before they progress any further.
And you seem to be seeing things as well, considering this "infinite notebook". Maybe you should get yourself checked out as well.
Finally, if it IS my brother's notebook (which, I assure you, it was not infinite when I looked through it), Kiera and "Skhisma" must have stolen it from the police. I believe the authorities would be most interested in this information.

So apparently Rick O'Connor, the same Rick O'Connor that called Damien insane, has found my blog. He's also claiming that Judith and I are insane. Rick here says we should go get psychiatric help. My reply?

Fuck. Off. I am not sending Judith off to be fucking institutionalized when I know firsthand that this shit is real, this shit is dangerous, and this shit isn't going to just go away by talking to some shrinks. Fuck no.

Now, prior to Rick's appearance, Skhisma left this comment. I think I believe him. For some reason, I feel he had the best intent in mind. However, I'm not burning it. Not yet. I need to get this under control. Rash action like burning something infinite does not seem like the best decision, especially considering the information it could contain

However, far more interesting is what he said in reply to Rick.

Skhisma said... 
"Rick". You're still using the name of a man so many times your better in order to try and give your words more meaning? You're still trying to cast doubt and misinformation on Damien's story so you and your little club can keep playing in the shadows?
I know who you are, "Rick". I remember how Wilcox always gave you so much extra attention. You were always Matthew's favorite. I seem to recall how he'd sometimes take you away for "private lessons". I can only imagine what that bastard did to you, and yet you embraced it. Look at you now: Leader of the faded remnants of an old, dead religion.
And just like I know you, "Rick", you know me. You know what I'm doing. You know what I'll keep doing. Now stop playing your games, stop soiling a good man's name, and start running.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Friday, June 17, 2011

Damien's Notebook: Entry 5 and Entry 6

I apologize for not updating when I said I would. So much has changed since Tuesday. I may be abandoning this project, for Judith's sake. I can't risk her life over that damn notebook.

I arrived home after the visit with my family only to find a note on the door from Judith. She's had a key to my apartment for the longest time, and I've always told her she's always welcome. The note simply stated she had stopped by in order to play my Xbox, to steal some lemonade, and to "borrow" the notebook.

I cannot remember a time I have ever arrived at her parents' house more quickly than I did on Wednesday.

Judith answered the door, chipper as ever. She smirked at me, asked if I'd missed her that much. In hindsight, that happiness and that smirk frighten me. I asked her where the notebook was, and she became quite apprehensive. She didn't think I'd miss it since I was at my family's house, and she wanted to read it. She apologized. I hugged her. We were okay then. I then did all I could while I was there to keep her distracted from the notebook.

Judith did, however, offer an experiment I couldn't pass up. As she said in this comment, she'd never encountered the same pages I had. I even showed her the ones I've transcribed that I have no intention of posting, and she'd seen none of them either. Curious, we decided to open the notebook to a single page and both write down its contents.

The results are terrifying. All this time that I've been reading one thing, she's been reading another. Looking at the same page at the same time, we both found two entirely separate entries. And Judith's...

I'll start with my own.


I still miss Why I don't Even a month later she still fucking hurts me. I know its my fault. If I had just inherited a little less of my mom's cuckoo I'd never have driven her off. But that isn

I still smell her sometimes. Apple shampoo in her black hair Goddamnit I don't blame her but we could've made it work. But nooo she "couldn't be bothered dealing with my crazy" while she was doing other things. Fucking bitch move. Fucking

You know? Fuck it. I'm gonna take Ted's offer.  Done sitting around pouting in my room. Done that all month. Party tonight, drink my love for her away.


Never again. I can hardly remember last night One big blur. What I do remember how gentle and warm and but never again. Not getting drunk again and now. Fuck I have to talk to Ted about this. Fuck."

Judith, instead, transcribed the following. Different date, different entry, different style of writing... She even says the ink was a different color. I saw purple, she saw red.


You see, the greatest asset one can have in fighting this beast is lack of fear. If you do not fear death, it cannot harm you. If you do not fear losing those you love, it cannot harm you through them. If you do not fear the unknown, it cannot harm your mind. If you do not fear change, it cannot harm you by changing your life.

Far too many look at this creature in terror when the correct response is some mixture of awe and disgust. It is a beautiful predator, and so very good at what it does. It devours entire lives without a second thought. It strangles them in its grip without a hint of remorse. It is also a predator that only kills the weak. Even the seemingly strong ones it hunts eventually reveal themselves as spineless and pathetic in the end. A truly magnificent killer hunts worthy prey. This one hunts the unworthy. All of that potential wasted.

What if there is a way to cage the beast? What if it can brought under will? What if it can be tamed? This idea is that which drives me. This idea is the foundation of who I am.

I know of a man who may have the tool I seek to accomplish my goal. I believe it is time I pay him a visit."

I'm not stupid. I know who this is. I listened to Kiera. Judith didn't. I asked her how many other entries she had read were written in red. Her answer:

"All of them."

Judith and I talked. For the briefest moment, her serenity cracked and she begged me to help her. She was terrified of what she'd been reading, and yet she couldn't stop. I've bought a steel box. I've bought a padlock. I have the number memorized. It's written nowhere. I need time to decide my next move.

I won't let anything happen to Judith. I just have to figure this out. I will figure this out.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011


I've been at my family's house since Saturday night, crashing on their sofa at night. The way the house feels has changed since the last time I was here. Dean's been staying in his room, applying for even more jobs than he normally does. My mother is constantly cleaning, just going through the entire house and making sure that its absolutely spotless. It's what she does when she's stressed. That, and bake. She's made so much food since I got here. I've had fresh bread and cookies and biscuits just in the past day, and she's in the kitchen now making omelets for the family.

Baking is mom's way of staying in control because it's something she knows. She knows her kitchen like the back of her hand, knows her recipes like she does the names of her children. I didn't inherit the talent. Mom tried to teach me just before I moved out, said it'd be a way to manage my budget. I just never got it as well as Todd did.

Todd's actually planning on going to culinary school. Despite being just a kid, he's very good at what he does. I'm not sure how well that will support him financially, especially considering the economy and all that, but I hope it'll work out for him. He's a good kid, despite having gotten mixed up in the wrong crowd last year, but he's been clean for the past six months as far as anyone is aware. With luck, he'll keep a handle on things and not let those drugs back into his life, won't let them dominate him. He just needs to get a job for the Summer, would help keep him out of trouble.

Then again, no one is able to find work right now. Dean's been searching for a year. His unemployment runs out next month. For all his flaws, for all my issues with him, he's a good man. There just isn't much of a market for computer technicians down here at the moment. He's doing what he can, but nothing's turned up. He has his part-time job, but that's not going to pay the bills, especially since the day care mom was working at closed.

Mom and Dean were able to get two months of their mortgage paid ahead of time last year. They've got just enough savings plus Dean's part-time work to last until then, but after that they're not going to pay any of their bills. I heard my mom crying last night. If something doesn't change, they'll lose everything.

This is why I've got to make these three books work. I'm still trying to get my werewolf novel shopped around, but no one's biting. I've got my fictionalized take on what's happening now that I'm about halfway through. I have Damien's notebook to try and transcribe. I'm doing what I can to make all this work. All I need is one to get published. Just one is all I need. Damien's story feels like the one that will sell best, the one that most needs to be told.

So many of you are yelling at me about how dangerous this is, about how I'm doing something wrong. All I ask is that you consider how I can legitimize you. If this book takes off, there's not going to be anymore doubt about what you're going through. I can help you. If more people know, it'll be easier on us all. We can get this under control. We won't all be madmen with faceless gods and infinite books. Isn't that what you want?

I know its dangerous. I'd run if I could. Still, I've learned. If this thing wants you, it's going to take you. It's in control. Running isn't going to help me. If it has you in its eyeless sights, it is going to destroy your life and everything you hold dear. I won't ruin my and my loved ones' lives on a chance that I may be trapped in a horror story where there's no good ending anyways. I'm just going to keep writing, for myself, my family, my father.

I'll post another notebook entry tomorrow. Breakfast is done.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Damien's Notebook: Entry 4

I'm starting to think I may be in a bit out of my depths. Between what was discussed in the comments last night and what I just transcribed, I'm concerned. Not about the notebook, but about its contents. If this monster is as real as Damien says, if it is capable of what is described below and it comes after me and my loved ones like it did his, I... I don't know what I'd do. Reading this journal, I'm amazed that Damien was able to hold everything together, but I've also seen him at his very lowest,  begging for death as everything was taken from him. All the things he described on his blog and in this notebook (There are entries in here that are incredibly graphic, even compared to this one) are unbelievable. Yet Damien believed every bit was happening, and so does Kiera, and so many others. I can't help but wonder if I've been dragged into something far beyond what I imagined.

Still, this book, this work that I'm transcribing right now, is everything. The journal and my story about what happened in April and May are my chance at making it. And I need to make it now more than ever... I don't expect you people to understand.

I found this entry today. It's a follow-up to Entry 2 and it's... just read it. 


I remember now. Saw that thing on the news watching me from that house and it was like pieces falling into place. It was like the memories were always there. I knew it should be but I wasn't ready. TheArsonist mentioned it when I spoke with mother but to actually remember it?

This can't go on the blog. Just here. Where I can see it. Where I can remember.

I was seven. Ted, Emily and I had snuck out. No idea where the babysitter was. She could've stopped this. No, not her fault. It was my idea. If I'd never told them to come with me into the woods that night we'd have never seen it rip and tear and mangle and destroy

I don't know how we got there. We'd seen it before, but it was always locked. The great green door was always locked. Except for that night when we went inside. Everything would be different if that door was locked, if I'd not insisted on going in. They'd all be alive. We'd all be alive.

Don't remember much inside. It was dark and light at the same time. All I know is the others wanted to go back but I kept pushing us forward. It was me. I lead our trip into the woods. I took us into the building. I was the one who had to explore. It's all my fault. All my fucking fault. They're all dead and it's my fault and if I just (I find it worth noting there's a few small spots on the page here. I honestly think they're from tears)

I'm okay.  I have to be okay. Fuck this. I have to write this down. In case I forget again.

We found ourselves in this room lit by fires held in large, gold bowls. We were on a balcony, overlooking a small room. I remember symbols on the wall (Here Damien drew four symbols, one is the inverted triangle with a cross from this picture, one is the so-called "Operator's symbol", another is a small man with no face, and the final one is three jerky horizontal lines, likely meant to resemble water). And then it was there, below us with these two kids and God he had a baby. Those sick fucks gave him a baby My own goddamn parents

And then he just started tearing them apart. Emily and Ted were crying, covered their eyes, looked away. I couldn't. I watched him pull bones out of a girl and force his tentacles into where they were. I saw him pluck each tooth from the boy's mouth before tearing his jaw off. I the baby was just destroyed. Tiny limbs and head and blood everywhere. Totally destroyed. And I watched and listened the whole time, heard him sing that terrible fucking song of life cut short. I can still hear it. A decade later, a decade of forgetting and now that I remember I can hear it like its yesterday.

He covered that room in those kids, in their organs and blood and skin and then he stopped and all I could think was how monstrous and terrifying and beautiful he was and for some fucked up reason some little piece of me wondered what it would be like to control all that power. At that moment, he looked at me. My brain caught fire. I screamed. I felt Ted and Emily grab my hands and pull me away.

And that's it. I just remember being at home after and my parents yelling at me for running away.

My life changed in one night. All of this set in motion in one night. And every bit of it my fault."

Friday, June 10, 2011

Damien's Notebook: Entry 3

I did an experiment today. I opened the book from the back instead of the front, just so I'd get a glimpse at the last page. This is what I found. I think this may be the last thing Damien ever wrote outside of his blog.


He's everywhere. I swear to god he's fucking everywhere. Only writing to stay SANE only writing to stay hole.

Oh god he's everywhere. In my house outside in my fucking head he's everywhere and I cant begin to stop him the bone does nothing Arsonst was wrong its nothing just a fuckin bone and he just watches why the fuck are you just watching


Let me go see Amelia and Em and Ted. I don't care anymore about this. I just want to die. I just want to see them again. Why won't you take me to them? Why am I left here with all my mistakes? Kill me too. Please kill me too.

I just want to see them again."

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Damien's Notebook: Entry 2

I apologize for the lack of an update. I'd intended to do so yesterday, but Judith made a surprise visit. We decided to grab a copy of Inception, order pizza, and stay in. I didn't quite have time to go about transcribing a mad man's words onto this site with her here. Judith certainly had time to pick it up and flip through it, though. I swear, she was more interested in that damn notebook than in the movie. I made sure to keep an eye on it as she left this time. Didn't exactly feel like having her walk out with it again.

Randomly found this page while flipping through the book. Nothing particularly of note on the page  outside of the entry and a tiny red scribble in the top-left corner, like someone was trying to get the ink to work in their pen.


A fucking cult. How can I not remember my parents being part of a fucking cult? How the hell did I just foret Something like that? It's like I remember the church. I remember playing in that sick fuck's house. I remember my parents leaving me home with a babysitter some nights while they went on "dates". But I can't remember anymore.

I know I should know more. I can feel the gaps.

TheArsonist must have done this. Or that thing took my memories. Or something. Something screwed with my mind, played with it like it was a toy. God, I feel so violated. So fucking violated. If something can just fuck with my head like

Why am I even surprised anymore? Some part of my skull is a psycho. My life is being ruined  by some guy in a suit with fucking tentacles? Ted, Emily, Amelia are all dead. And I'm sitting her fucking journaling? What the hell is wrong with me?

I'm insane is what's wrong.

I'm gonna go take my meds and watch some TV. Try and sleep. Figure out what to do tomorrow."

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Damien's Notebook: Entry 1

It's not quite accurate to title this Entry 1. After all, the first entry is different every time I start looking through this damned notebook. I swear, it's impossible to ever find the same page twice with this thing. Still, I opened the book to a random page and got this. It seems like a good place to start, especially considering when it takes place and what it means about this notebook.


Well, I'm on the last page of this notebook. Another four months of life turned into a bunch of useless thoughts on paper. Maybe not entirely useless. I'm sure there's some decent memories or stories or reminiscing or ideas or whatever in here somewhere. I just don't know if I'll ever dig them out. Probably just toss this with the other finished ones in my closet.

You know, I'm kinda starting to think maybe I should get a blog. I'm down to one last notebook leftover from school anyways, and all the old ones just take up space. Who knows, maybe someone will actually read it.

Really wishing I didn't have to work this weekend. Ted and his damn gaming convention are making me jealous. I could be out playing games but instead I have to go fold clothes and get yelled at by David. What a fucking asshole. He's constantly on me about shit that doesn't even matter.

"Damien, why aren't these jeans folded perfectly and sized correctly?"

Because entropy in the form of customers takes care of that within minutes of me turning around, David. Be happy with "pretty good" and not perfection.

And I'm just about out of room on this page. Decision time: blog or notebook?"

Considering this was definitely not the last page of the notebook I have with me, I have no idea what to think right now. The notebook isn't just infinite but also contains writings from other notebooks? It's just... odd as hell. We'll put it that way.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Damien's Notebook: Introduction

I finally got Damien's notebook back from Judith today. I'm not sure how big of a fan I am of her taking it home with her. I... This notebook is weird. I mean, of course it's weird. It never fucking ends. That isn't quite what I mean, though. The only word I can come up to describe it is "fascinating". There's something about it that just makes you want to read it.

I don't like it.

Judith had her nose in it the entire time she was here after Brett was caught (may he rot in whatever institution they send him to). I honestly tried to convince her to stop, to listen to what some of you were saying about how dangerous it is. I tried, and she would for awhile, but I'd turn around and next thing I know she was reading it again. I asked her to leave the notebook with me when she left Sunday morning. She agreed. I tried to find it a few hours later, but it was gone. She'd smuggled it out in her purse.

I'm... concerned, which is why I'm keeping the notebook here with me for the time being.

I promised pictures of this thing awhile back. I took some. Swear to god I did. The thing is... Every picture file turned out corrupted. I'd take a picture with my camera and upload it to my computer, only to get a useless file. I'd take a picture with my phone and send it to my laptop, only to receive a useless file. I took a picture with my webcam and would go to open it, only to find a useless file. Picture of my camera's preview screen with my phone, useless file. Picture of the preview on my camera of the "preview" on my webcam with my phone, useless file. Every picture that contains so much as the corner of the notebook in the frame turns out as a useless file.

So... no pictures. I will, however, go ahead and transcribe anything interesting I happen to find on here. Kiera made it very clear that I wasn't supposed to post anything by "TheArsonist". Lucky for her, I'm in a good mood with Brett gone. I'll listen, for the time being. I'm much more interested in Damien anyways.

I'll post the first major entry tomorrow. However, here's a shorter one, just to give you a taste of what's to come...


I dreamed about him again, wearing his suit and tie. I can't remember his face, but I know who he was, know how beautiful he would be if I just remembered. He took me out on the town, to a restaurant grander than anything I could ever imagine. Then, we went out for a walk in the park. He led me into the woods, and I followed willingly. How could I not? He was so (what's a good word?) compelling. He stepped towards me until I was left with my back was against a tree. He leaned in close as he touched my face and and I woke up.

I don't understand."