You know what a ‘rabbit-hole’ is, right? You stumble across a YouTube video as you snuggle into bed. A harmless fifteen minutes. And two hours later you’re flat on your stomach, oddly sweaty, and your eyes are bouncing from Wikipedia page to internet forum to conspiracy website. The notion of sleep evaporated from your brain, brimming with speculative theories and outrageous fantasies.
It started as a hobby and quickly became an obsession for the weird and unexplained. Long after my parents have fallen asleep, I’ll find myself in my father’s study.
Two weeks ago, after my ceaseless badgering, he had relented to show me the project he was working on. Opening his work computer in front of me, I focused intently on the keys his fingers depressed and since then I’ve been able to access his browser. I was never able to figure out proxies or VPNs or however else one is supposed to enter the deep web, but my father’s computer seemed to have whatever was needed for it.
Link after link, I fell deeper and deeper. I became obsessed. Made worse by what I’m about to share with you now.
I’ve stumbled across something unexplainable. For the first time, I don’t have a clear idea of what could have possibly happened. Everyone I’ve brought this up to has never heard of it. In the forums I visit for popular opinions to mysteries like the Dyatlov Pass, the Flannan Isles Lighthouse disappearances or Malaysia Airlines Flight 370 or the Zodiac Killer, no one claims to know of it. Maybe you do?
Have you heard of the Kalorama Heights Incident?
The name may sound familiar. Kalorama Heights is one of the richest neighborhoods in the United States. Residence for some of the most affluential people in the world, the area houses the likes of former president Barack Obama and Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos. Something like this should have made national news.
Except, YouTube searches produce only mega-mansion tours, the surface web yields nothing of relevance, and no major news stations have run a story on it.
The first time I saw the name was two weeks ago. Some time after midnight, in my father’s office on his computer. I must’ve found my way into a cache of classified documents. If you’re wondering, my dad used to work Homeland Security. I had reached a listing of acts of terrorism and national threat events in the 21st century. At the top were the obvious ones: September 11th and the Boston Marathon. The list was long, and the lower it went, the more obscure. For each event I didn’t know, I did more research on my father’s computer until I was satisfied before continuing down the list. Let me tell you. The conspiracy theorists are right.
At the bottom of the page was the classic, ‘[REDACTED]’. Frustrated at the idea of something I couldn’t know, I clicked on it. To my surprise it was hyperlinked. A nearly blank document was displayed on the screen:
Kalorama Heights Incident
Clearance Level: TITAN
Senior Officer: [REDACTED]
On Scene Commanding Officer: [REDACTED], John S.
SRT, CAT, FBI SWAT, CNU, CS Unit, HAZMAT, [REDACTED]
Assisting Agencies
Holy See, Islamic Society of North America
Casualties: [REDACTED]
From April 9th - April 11th, 20[??] a raid was conducted on an estate in the Sheridan-Kalorama neighborhood of Washington D.C. resulting in the single largest loss in life of national security and law enforcement personnel in U.S. history. Information garnered from the massacre has confirmed to the U.S. government that [REDACTED]**. The U.S. government must remain allied and amicable with [REDACTED] to ensure an event of this severity is not repeated, and if not possible, contained.
This half page was all I could find for a while. There was nothing else that could offer additional information on that document. I couldn’t bring it up to my father without admitting that I’ve been accessing his work computer, so I was left to ask around online.
Nothing.
It was the first wall I’d ever hit since I’d achieved true unrestricted access to the internet, and it frustrated me. The proceeding week I must have accumulated only 5 hours of sleep. Every chance I got, I stole away to my father’s computer and tried to go deeper.
Eventually, I had to give up. All those hours staring at the burning blue of the computer screen did nothing but hurt my eyes. Even though swallowing the prospect that I would never really know what happened hurt worse.
I tried to move on. Discovering other mysteries and their readily available explanations felt bland. I was like a thirsty man in the desert forced to settle wringing dirty droplets of a rag onto my tongue. I’d never be satisfied until I took an enormous gulp into my belly to soothe my ache.
A week later, I took that first refreshing swig.
It was almost morning, and I’d found a database for crime-scene evidence. Going through the morbid items was enough to capture my attention for a few hours. The physical objects were one thing: guns, knives, blood-stained stuffed animals, dentures/grills, remnants of a pipe-bomb, a mallet; but what really got me were the written entries: suicide notes, diary entries, final text conversations before a crime of passion or a car crash, messages drawn on walls in what looked like red paint…
The sun was about to rise into view, and I had enough time to read through one last piece, a diary entry:
April 10th. 2:30 am
I am locked inside of my house.
Yesterday, the government’s trucks appeared on my lawn. I didn’t hear engines growling outside until I finished brushing my teeth. They had already wrapped my front and back door with chains and heavy iron padlocks by then. I watched in shock, still in my pajamas, a combination of men dressed in Swat and Hazmat uniforms, religious and business professional attire, scurrying like ants outside, drilling my windows shut before throwing a sort of opaque material over them.
I banged on my door demanding to be let out of my own house. My property! The response was muted sounds of purposeful hurrying and indiscernible voices. Only when I smashed my kitchen window with my toaster did a megaphone wail from the front yard.
“Take a step out that window and we will shoot you.”
From behind the plaster-like material, there were silhouettes, some milling about, some deadly still, with extra-long shadows pointed in my direction.
I pled with them, begged to be let out; tried to explain that I had no idea why all this was happening, and asked what in the Hell they wanted from me.
“Well now, that’s some interesting verbiage. What we want from Hell is likely hiding behind those cellar doors, right? We’d like for you to open them.”
So, the damn fed wasn’t stupid.
The rusty iron doors in the ground of the backyard. There isn’t a lock, but this is no issue: what’s holding them shut won’t allow entry to just any man of flesh. Not without a price.
I tried once more to shake their confidence.
“Please. My wife and my kids. They’re scared, I don’t want them hurt.”
They were quiet. Perhaps, I thought, they believed they had the wrong house. I chuckled and fell back onto my leather recliner with my eyes closed, stretching my weary muscles. I relished the period of silence; long enough to give me a fool’s taste of victory.
It was to my surprise that a hail of bullets assaulted my walls, pounding and shaking me rudely from my daydreams. Throwing myself to the floor behind my couch, I admit, I cowered.
14 holes in my wall, I counted, waiting for the haze of dust to settle.
As I shook, darkness threatened my mind. To come to my home and stand before me with threats and accusations, to vandalize and then tarnish my image, all in front of my neighbors no less! How long it had taken me to find this place and integrate, inconspicuously. The best place to hide after all is in plain sight.
So be it. They wish to find me? I will show them.
“I hope that didn’t scare your wife and kids too bad,” that whining megaphone mocked.
Careful not to alert them, I crawled to my basement door. Six months has gone since I had sealed it shut. Despite this, the ancient words I spoke coaxed it open and revealed the yawning black of the basement.
From inside my deal broker called to me.
He mocked and ridiculed me. He comforted me and gave me solace. And then he asked what I desired.
I only wanted them to go. No one needed to get hurt here. I didn’t wish to share my fate with the innocent.
Only upon re-reading it did I make a connection to the previous document. It had stated that units on scene included SWAT and HAZMAT and assistance from the Holy See. In this diary entry, the man mentions seeing people dressed in tactical gear, hazmat, and religious garb. He also referred to his house as an estate, which is normal for a neighborhood like Kalorama Heights.
And the smoking gun: the date. April 10th, right in the middle of when the raid was supposed to have happened.
Still, it was a leap, with no concrete proof linking the two together. Regardless, I was enraptured, and practically bouncing out of my seat. I almost didn’t hear the door to my father’s bedroom open. The night had slipped away and the sun peeked in through the windows. I was forced to close my tabs and sneak back to my bed while my father used the bathroom. It was time for school.
Who was the man that had written the diary entry? Why was he subject to being locked in his own house? What was his state of mind? His words don’t exactly portray him as someone of sound mind. Was he with an accomplice, or simply schizophrenic?
These were the only thoughts in class between bouts of microsleep. I needed rest. But the inch gained from that diary entry was enough to forgo my health. The local gas station was doing a buy-one-get-one deal on energy drinks. I came home with six.
Father was in the kitchen when I arrived home. He seemed concerned.
“You want to set a record or something?”
He looked at the bag of energy drinks in my hand.
“No, just a good deal is all.”
“You don’t get enough sleep.” It was a statement, not a question. He raised his eyebrow and waited for me to say something.
“I’m fine, if my grades suffer I’ll start taking Melatonin.”
He didn’t seem satisfied, but father accepted the answer.
He’s a hard-ass, but he cares for me. Mindful to the point where he seems wary of everything. I wouldn’t say afraid but just conscious.
I asked him what his job was like, what he did, but he’s never given an enthusiastic answer, favoring instead vague and off-topic answers.
Dinner was meatball subs and then retirement to our beds.
That night I reread the diary entry. And I found another one. Not a diary entry, but it looked more like an interview log or a transcript; a report of some kind, but only the last two pages of it. Here it is:
Transcript Cont.
… that’s what they told us, what you told us. We all know a red herring when we damn see–“
“I’m warning you Officer, I cannot tolerate that sour language much longer.”
Pause
“Now, young man, before I ask you to start from the beginning again, I’m going to remind you to pick your words with precision; both in and outside of this room. We are proud you are among those fortunate enough to have walked out of this alive, and confident that you’ll respect our wish of privacy in this matter. But confidence can waver, and numbers can be rounded off. So, Officer. Prove to us that head of yours is still on your shoulders.”
Pause
“I apologize, Sir. Please, er… Are you providing any relief for the assigned? I promise I’m right as rain. But, it’s been a week and my muscles are still tight. Like my body won’t let its guard down yet. I don’t close my eyes when I shower. I can’t be the only one who hasn’t been able to sleep, right sir?”
Pause
“No.”
“I’ll be alright though. You have nothing to worry about me, sir. My mind is sound. Just there’s a weight like I haven’t taken my tactical gear off. You can recognize that, right sir?
“Yes, son. As a betting man, I would gamble on nobody alive having experience like this. We are trying our best to debrief. It’s going to take some time but be assured that you are our first and foremost priority.
Ofc. Vernon nods.
“Wife? Kids?”
Ofc. Vernon nods
“Yes, sir. Sasha and the twins.”
“Alright. Vernon? I want you to go home, kiss your wife, and shake the sheets with her tonight. A woman’s touch is good for you now, not to mention the release. Don’t let your boys see you cry. Give them a father they can be proud of. You’re a man, right?
Ofc. Vernon nods
“Good boy.”
[REDACTED] and Ofc. Vernon shake hands. Ofc. Vernon exits. Pause.
“It’s no good. Tomorrow night. Give our boy the courtesy of a lay before he goes.”
END OF TRANSCRIPT
I’m getting paranoid.
After this one, I began to check my surroundings more. It was unconscious at first. Frequent checking over my shoulder. It never hurts to be mindful of your environment.
There must be a convention in town. There’s been an abnormal number of men in black suits. I live in the suburbs. On the walk to school this morning there were two. Black suits, black hats, black suitcases. One was parked, in his car on the side of the road seemingly distracted with his phone. The other appeared behind me on the last stretch to school. I increased my pace but the man seemed to match my strides. I took a shortcut cutting through the baseball fields in the back and he continued walking down the sidewalk like nothing.
At the end of the day, while students loaded onto the bus I noticed another man in black outside the window, different from the first two. He was waiting in the parking lot. Although, he could’ve just been there to pick up his kid.
I may need to take it easy on all this. Don’t want to end up like Officer Vernon.
-—————————————————————————————————————————————————-
I’ve been having nightmares. Likely it’s my sleep depleted brain manifesting my irrational fears into dark dreams. Yes, I dream of the men in black. But I also dream of other, more horrible things.
A naked man with a head of horned cattle beckoned me, wings sprouting from his back and the voice of a rockslide. A great serpent, 15 meters in length, with ringlets of color; brown, black, and red patterned from its sharp tail to its unfathomably broad head. An ocean of ink surrounded me; paralyzed yet able to see clearly these monsters. They did not move at first. They whispered in a dreadful way.
The goliath snake began to coil around me, squeezing, and settled its reptile head on my shoulder. It danced its forked tongue across my ear, and this time spoke husked into it and with clear English.
“A lie is easiest spoken to the one whose trust has been earned”
I broke from my dream drenched. And standing upright. The sensation of constriction hadn’t left and I struggled to breathe.
The room was dark. In front of me was a desk. My father’s. Sleep walking was never an affliction of mine but somehow I had made my way to my father’s study.
I turned to leave and reached to wipe the slick off my face before realizing I was not emptyhanded.
I turned on the lights to see a small book. My father didn’t have a bookcase, but the bottom drawer to his desk was open. Did I do all of this in my sleep?
Assuming it was his journal I opened it to the first page. On the line underneath the phrase indicating ownership was a name that didn’t belong to my father.
For and belonging to:
John S. Evans
A ribbon for page marking was attached and I opened the journal about midway to the pages it rested between. After reading the entry, I wondered if I was still dreaming:
April 9th, 10:44 PM
The job for today is over. We had considered a night time op, but we figured too much risk. That, and the men are unsettled. I can admit here that I feel it too.
So far, it’s gone well. We were going door to door the day before letting all the residents know a biohazard risk was present in the area, and to find a hotel or just figure it out. They could afford it, no doubt. Every house was cleared by this morning. Except for one.
We rolled in today as planned, fast and heavy. Our target is known to be elusive. We made sure every exit and entrance was sealed. Everyone was nearly in position when a toaster comes flying out of one of the windows on the side of the house. I threw Jude the megaphone and made sure our snipers had eyes on the window.
Over the megaphone, Jude let him know he was pinned.
From inside we could hear the target.
We told him we know what he’s hiding. The thing he harbors.
He begged.
Persuasive, genuine. I’m not fooled easily but if I hadn’t known better I’d have believed him.
The priests and imams clutched their holy books. They had warned us that his words are seductive. The See has been looking for him for years. Here on U.S. soil lives the man they call Faust.
Bullets rang out. Jude had given the signal to fire warning shots. I fear his ambition may jeopardize our mission. If he undermines my authority further, we could lose a lot of men here.
The rest of the day there was silence. Until we found the remains of Jack. Got a few people said they heard him announce he had to crap. He had walked across the street to the park to find a secluded spot to relieve himself. Someone went to look for him and stepped on one of his eyes. That’s all we found of Jack. Just his eyes.
We are camped outside now. We will enter the estate at around 3 in the morning on April 10th. There is a chill in the air that wasn’t here before. Many soldiers gather around the holy men for prayer before we confront whatever he’s keeping in that basement. I think I’ll join them.
I didn’t even have time to look it over a second time. There was a tap at the window.
Peering into my father’s study from outside was a man in a black suit. His arm beckoned me from inside.