Hey guys.
My friend has gone missing and this is the only thing he’s left me.
I wanted to post this here. I recently tried to visit an old college friend. His name is Jason. I got lucky and had a work-related event in a city near his town.
I would talk to him quite a lot over the phone, trying to maintain regular communication. However, this stopped just after we had called and agreed to meet. I just couldn’t reach him anymore.
Once I was done with the conference, I drove over to his place. That’s all that was left for me to do after my last calls failed again to reach him.
I rang the doorbell and there was no response. I desperatly tried calling again. Nothing. I decided to call the police and ask them to check on my friend. They would at least be able to get through the front door without getting arrested for it.
Well, the authorities came and went. There was still no sign of my friend. One of the cops, however, handed me a crumpled letter. I gave them my name and seeing how the message from my friend started, I could quickly guess why they gave it to me.
I’ve read it. Over and over again. I can’t make sense of it. That is where I hope you can help me.
The cops ended up launching a proper investigation after I called them again three days later after no sign of my friend. There was no sign of him or any break-in. Everything was in order. They said they would keep looking, even try the lake just outside of town. The suggestion made me shudder. However, it’s in their hands now. I called everyone I could who might know something.
My friend is still nowhere to be seen.
Give this a read and let me know what you think.
Here’s his letter to me:
“Please (my name)!
I know you are likely looking for me and please don’t stop. I am here. I am still here goddamnit.
I got this painting art fucking abomination of a German cabin in a birch forest. I just hung it up over my bed. As you know, Allison had just left me and was taking a break from work.
I found it at a yard sale. I don’t know. Just picked it up because it reminded me of a similar cabin my Oma had back in the fatherland. I guess the nostalgia that came when seeing it made me feel just a little less alone but I didn’t fucking know.
As soon as I hung it up, something itched at the back of my neck just felt plain wrong. I had just fucking bought it and already something was off. I looked at it. It wasn’t the placement. Actually, it looked quite good on the wall. It felt like it expanded the room
So I kept staring at it. Staring and staring and staring. There had to be something I hadn’t seen before. I even forgot to blink every now and again. Only when I had to go eat, sleep or shit I would avert my eyes. The very existence the picture was supposed to help me alleviate had only become worse and worse. I was basically living out of my bedroom, now nothing more than a rectangular cell with pastel wallpaper, a wooden Swedish bed and closets and my desk.
I was so fucking thankful for you calling me when you did, reminding me of your visit. I was thought I was going nuts. Your voice really helped. Finally, I wasn’t feeling so lonely anymore. But the painting was still there mocking reminding me of what your calls were only temporarily fixing.
Then it happened. It was the day when you told me about your plans to come to the city. You were my escape. You could’ve helped me trash the painting and just not be alone. I didn’t have the strength. I lost whatever was left. See, I had begun to believe it was just me, like always. You know what I mean. At least obsession was good back in college when fixing your code.
Before I say more. I want you to know that I’m just lonely and sad and gently losing my sanity. Nothing more. Nothing darker. I need you to understand that since when you read this I don’t want you to give up hope. I need you to do something…anything.
My door vanished.
Not the front door and not any other door. And it didn’t just vanish as if pulled from its hinges. Where there was once my white bedroom door was now just that blue fucking pastel wallpaper, disgustingly clean just like the rest.
I know, (my name again)
I know.
Of course, I barely noticed, staring at the painting all the damn time. It was only when I needed to go the bathroom that I almost flat-out walked into the wall where the door used to be. First, there was disbelief, then there was horror and then came vindication. If you can believe it, I felt vindicated. For once justified my obsession. Of course, It had to be the painting. It’s not like I get trapped like this regularly.
But you know what’s worse than being alone in a room with the only company being a gaudy painting? Being alone in a room with a painting that has just sealed off your exit. It wasn’t like I was going to take it any time soon. I was waiting for you. It knew.
Given everything else, I have to say I took it quite well. It surprised me but it also gave me renewed energy. I had to keep looking. The secret had to be somewhere. But I also knew I had to eat or go to the bathroom soon. This painting wasn’t going to beat me. My room was my prison to make, not the pictures.
The next stop was obviously the window. I looked outside and a relieved sigh escaped my lips. I could see my neighbour’s house. As you will come to see, the room is not placed at any great height. It might strain my knees and scrape my skin but I would survive. An escape was there, for now.
I felt a tingle at the back of my neck. Something was wrong. I darted around.
My eyes were fixated on the painting again. This time I felt it in my bones. There was something. I thought I saw movement on the two-dimensional layers of paint that made up the picture. It was only for a split second, but I swear, I saw something.
I grabbed my chair, placed it facing the painting and planted myself securely. The light outside was getting dimmer and dimmer but this time I wouldn’t just give up.
My bedroom seemed to contort around me, the walls twisting and turning to make the painting the only vanishing point in my line of sight. I wasn’t losing sight of it.
Pretty soon, I was doused in darkness. My eyes struggled to adjust but They got there eventually. Licking my lips, I leaned in closer. Maybe it was just the moonlight. Maybe the moonlight helped me but I saw it again. It moved between the far-off bony whites of the forest in the background. Again, (my name), it was for a split second. If I had blinked I would’ve missed it. But I swear to you, I saw something move. What it was, I couldn’t say, just that it moved.
I clapped my hands in triumph. But this time my order of emotions was reversed. First validation, then horror. Something had just moved, in the moonlight of my room and the sunny rays of the painting.
My obsession changed its nature. Fear took over, fear of missing it moving again, fear of it getting closer. How many times had it traversed the paint when I wasn’t looking?
That’s why I’m writing this letter, documenting what’s happening. I have become fixed in the room, in a constant battle with something I don’t even know what it is. I can’t call you anymore. I need to keep looking. When you read this, I should still be here but I don’t know anymore.
You can’t come fast enough. I am scared.
I grabbed this sheet as fast as I could from the desk next to me, trying to minimize eye contact with the painting. I almost fell to the floor, my little room suddenly regaining it’s dimensions. It felt bigger, emptier. But that was just my imagination. I was not a prisoner, but a warden now.
I wrote everything up until now. I am sorry if it’s hard to read. My hands are shaking and I am trying to both focus on this letter and the picture all at once. I don’t know how long I have been sitting here. It’s still dark.
I’m surprised I’m writing al
I saw movement, but only as it vanished behind another skeletal tree.
I hate myself for being right. It was closer.
I will throw this letter out of the window if I have to. I will jump out the window if I have to.
There it is again. God save me. I could make out a shape.
It was walking.
Please, (name), come find me. Break down the door if y o u
It’s coming through the trees.
It’s behind the cabin. I see an arm.
Help.
I’m going to make a run for it. I have to.
God help me. I just have to work up the courage to turn away and open the window. Letter in my hand.
One last glance.
it‘s here.
There is a face staring at me. Just a face. Human, looking at me with sunken eyes and colourless skin through the paint.
It’s covering the entire canvas, its world behind it, looking into mine finally looking directly at me.
It doesn’t blink. It doesn’t move. It just stares.
I have to go now.
I am not alone anymore.”
The letter ends here.
The last lines were the hardest to read, not just because of the handwriting becoming exponentially worse but of course also because of what was written.
I got a chance to go into his bedroom. There was a door where he said there wasn’t. However, there also was a painting. Hanging right over his bed. There was a chair in the middle of the room and the window was open. I walked out as soon as I could, trying not to stare too long at the picture of a beautiful cabin in the birch forest.