Just to clear something up, my friend and I went over these together. He knows what this man went through just as much as I do. My friend, though, does not believe in the paranormal or supernatural in any capacity, so he shrugged it all off. Me, being the believer I am, chose to transcribe these to get an opinion from the (mostly) brilliant minds of /r/nosleep.
Also, some people asked where Allan got his money from, and someone called it. What I gathered from the earlier entries in the journal is that he was on disability. In addition to that, it looks like he at one point had a very part time job working from home for a call center of some sort, but based on the lack of mention in the previous and forthcoming transcriptions, at the time of these events, he had stopped working for them.
Now that that’s all cleared up, let’s get to it.
July 25th, 2013
My feet feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each. It takes everything I have to walk just across the room. I soaked my feet in the bathtub and the dried, cracking grime came off, but it must have seeped into my skin because it still feels like there’s small boulders attached my ankles. I basically drag myself around the house. I accepted long ago that this house would be my tomb, but I never thought it would be under these conditions.
Whenever I move about my house, the thing in the attic follows me up above. I can hear the creaking of the floorboards follow me wherever I go. This is the first time I’ve ever wanted him to appear, so I can try to speak to it. I have to find out what it wants. I need it to take the grime out of the insides of my feet so I can walk properly again. I am in this position because of it, and I now need its help. I’m so pathetic.
July 27th, 2013
He finally showed up. And I was happy. I can’t believe it, but I was actually happy. He slowly entered my living room from around the corner of the hallway, He dripped black grime as the odor of rotting…everything permeated the air, filling the space between my walls and ceiling and floor with a nauseating stench that threatened to further empty my already empty stomach. I forgot if I wrote down that I don’t really eat anymore. Getting to the kitchen is too arduous of a process. When I do go, I bring out a few days worth of food so I can just stay in the living room. I have a bucket I use for relieving myself that I empty into the toilet twice a week. I’m off topic though.
I gagged as he turned the corner. He leaves a trail of black sludge wherever he goes. It’s disgusting. But anyways, he walked into the living room, and after I calmed down my hyperventilation, I managed to squeak out some things that passed for words. I asked him what he wanted with me. His response was simple. He just said he was “hungry” and that I “feed him well”. I don’t know what to make of this because he’s never tried to eat me. Then I asked what happened to the rest of the things like him that were terrorizing me months earlier. He said something along the lines of “You are mine. Not theirs. Now they know”. I sat there not knowing how to respond. All of the sudden, from his foot began a puddle of the black sludge that coated his body under his clothes. The puddle got bigger and bigger until it reached my feet, and then bubbled up, before bursting, getting all over me. My face, in my mouth, all over my clothes. Then he simply turned around and walked away, leaving his mess behind him. Since then, every hour or so I’ve been vomiting this black sludge. I don’t know where in my body it’s coming from, but it’s there. Trust me. It’s there.
August 14th, 2013
I finally stopped vomiting. I’ve lost 36 pounds since the last time I wrote in here. I have a headache. He visits me every once in awhile. He doesn’t say anything. He just comes to me, wherever I am, and traces his finger along somewhere on my body. He leaves a line of the grime on me, the smell of which I’ve gotten used to. I chip it away, and sometimes it takes some skin off too. He then comes back and collects the chips and pieces of skin. I don’t know what he does with them. I have a really bad headache. And I’m hungry. I wish I did not have this headache!
September 1st, 2013
I have lost all the skin on my left arm and hand, up to the elbow. He’s been leaving a much wider line of grime on me that adheres to my skin, and each piece that chips off pretty much just takes the skin beneath it with it. My left arm is a mess. I’ve never quite seen that hue of pink before. I asked him what he was doing with all of it, and he ignored me. I’m getting tired of this. I think it’s time to go outside.
September 8th, 2013
I don’t know why I forgot what happened the last time I tried to go outside. After standing at my front door for three hours, I finally got up the nerve to leave. I swore I was going to do it. I couldn’t live like this anymore. Anne had brought a doctor friend of hers over to check on my arm, I was all bandaged up properly. They tried telling me I had to go to a psychiatric hospital. And I would’ve, were I actually a crazy person. They didn’t know what I was dealing with. They didn’t see the grime that I spend 6-8 hours a day cleaning up from his previous visit. They don’t have to deal with the smell that I use 4 cans of Febreeze a day covering. My sister thought I was crazy for needing that much Febreeze. She’s the crazy one. But I digress. I opened my door, fully prepared to leave. I think. But there he was. He pushed the door open, knocking me to the ground behind it. He then loomed over me. He told me I had to stop seeing my sister or he would send his “friends” to her. As mad as I was at Anne, I wouldn’t do anything to put her in harm’s way. Then, as punishment, he traced a line across my forehead. Pretty much covered my whole forehead in the grime. I had a small panic attack as he left. I closed the door behind me, all my confidence flew away in the outside wind.
September 12th, 2013
The lack of skin on my forehead has gotten rather infected over the last few days. It burns quite badly. But he needs it. And he can have it. I don’t want it anymore. What is it? What is he? What this? Why
October 1st, 2013
My entire upper body is skinless. My face, my torso, my arms and hands. I am in constant pain every day. I can’t continue this. He wins. I give up. And that’s what I told him. He said we will be ending everything tonight. He told me it will be quick. That’s all I ask. This life is not for me anymore. I’ve kept myself imprisoned for so long, and I don’t care to be like this anymore. I’m done being haunted. I hope no one ever has to go through what I went through. To the poor soul that lives in this house after me, good luck. To Anne, I’m sorry I could never show you what’s been haunting me for so long. I wish he would’ve slipped up even once covering his tracks. To Mary, thank you for your help, I made it much longer than I would have without you. Goodbye.
And that was it. That was the last page. Now, we checked out the whole house, the attic included. There was nothing and no one there. All the windows were boarded up, and the broken windows lined up with the windows that were broken in the journal. There was a SHITTON of garbage that filled up half the kitchen and smelled awful. A bunch of broken dishes. Everything seems legit. The one weird thing about the journal was that the last page of the notebook was stuck together with the back cover, with a black, chipping substance that seemed to be whatever Allan was talking about. It had a smell to it too. And I assume it’s just my friend fucking with me, but tonight is his first night in the house, and I just got the following text:
*Dude not even kidding….there’s footsteps coming from the attic.*
I called him right away and his phone was off. It’s probably a joke.