As you read, imagine yourself as a sheriff living in an abandoned town with nothing left but a few feared residences and the chilling thought of wondering who may be next.
I hope you enjoy! xoxoxo
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Town:
Mecklem County
Report Status: Unknown
It is midnight. There are only three hours until they will come once again. I have only my radio and the silent sound of my cell phone next to me. Patiently, I wait knowing someone will call- they always do. Half of the town have evacuated. The rest are too afraid to leave. Our town used to be a place for the family to come for the holidays or couples to gather for a rendezvous. Now, the only visitors are the F.B.I. investigators and a few broken family members who have gone mad by the loss of their loved ones.
1:00 a.m.
I stare out the window into the eerie night. Never do I hear a single footstep, nor a vehicle passing by. The only nerve-racking sound is the internal chaos inside my head of who will be taken next. The Bradley's are still here, but they say they all sleep together now. For a family that loathed each other- now the Bradley's spend every waking moment embracing their life as if it will be the last time they will see each other. To be honest with you... it probably is.
Miley Stephenson has a three-year-old by the name of, Janie. Miley has an elderly grandmother who lives with her as well. She used to have a husband and a teenage boy, he was about fifteen, but they are both gone now because they were sucked away by them. Each night as the darkness falls upon the sky, the Stephenson's stay hidden inside the unlit cellar. They each stay awake until the sun peeks through the tiny window in the morning. They make sure they are never alone.
2:00 a.m.
I pace the hardwood floors and smoke too many cigars. As the smoke lingers throughout the room, I stomp up to the bulletin board. It is a neverending battle as I attempt to find any clues that would be the key to end these maddening events. There are sporadic pegs everywhere; no patterns what so ever. "Why isn't there ever a pattern?" I ask as I crush my cigar into the ashtray.
Running my hand through my hair, I think to myself, "What am I missing? There has to be something, something I am not seeing!"
Marching over to the desk across from me, I flip the newspaper and open to the last events written by our journalist investigator. He posted this article the night before he was sucked away into the dreary sky. Looking down, I notice a title written in bold black letters, The Shallows.
