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I'm back.

Jan. 17th, 2006 | 11:46 pm

Three months and five states later. I got news, kiddies, so sit down and hear me out.

Okay, first off, about what I was saying earlier. Before that woman contacted me and I suddenly got popular, I mean. About my house. You know, that was my house. Maybe that's just how we Americans operate, but once I put a payment on anything, that sucker's mine. So after two days, I done came up with a few conclusions, the first of which was: I didn't really see what I thought I saw. It was a monoxide leak. Or I got sloshed and had some episode. Two days in a motel was plenty for me to work up the old courage and go back.

Somebody was living in the house. In my house.
Two somebodys, turned out. Twin brothers. My stuff was there, at least the furniture I could see through the windows, but they were livin it up like nothing was wrong. The window I thought I busted thru was replaced and everything looked almost normal but damn if you just don't know what to do when you come home and find two strangers living in your house. I wasn't even bothered that they could be out to kill me or something. You know what worried me? That they were going thru my stuff, puttin they're grubby paws all over my music CDs, my underwear, sleeping under my covers. Dammit.

I would of stayed outside, just watching them move around like shadows behind the drapes, but then this nest of blackbirds made a racket flying outta that little elm tree in the front yard, and I see those twins at the window staring at me. Then the front door opened like someone was there inviting me inside. But no one was there. And something in the Loreen brain said "No monoxide leak, no drunken nightmare, move your ass." So I listened, and I bailed. Left my CDs and my clothes and my fucken house behind.

A few months later, one of them brothers found me in Utah, and I had to kill him dead.

Now I got some of that outta the way I need to tell you important information. Enough with the history. I'm your secret agent, out in the field, getting you the files you need to stay alive.

Theory: Somebody had to start building these things, right? I started snooping around. Here's what I found out. Get your pencils out.
Near as I can tell, the original designer of the floorplans was a man named Jared Lewis. He tore down his own house in Topeka and built a new one on top of the foundation. Family left him at some point in the process.

Okay but there's more. Lewis was an old student or disciple of some nut named Jack Parsons. Man oh man is there a ton of background on Parsons. Too much to go into here. But this Lewis guy went after this home building project like he was some land-based Noah.

So I'm still collecting information on this Jared Lewis and his little group of followers. I should also have some goodies like an actual floorplan and maybe some photos of the house, assuming I get up the courage to visit the one in the city where I'm squatting now.

Damn gotta go talk more later

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for Connie

Oct. 13th, 2005 | 10:55 am

Well I was gonna pick up where I left off last week, but I had to wade through 4 e-mail from some woman before I could get here. I don't have time to respond to all of them. This bitch box costs me money. Money I could be spending on booze or coffee. My lifeblood.

Look. Connie. Or whoever you are.

I don't give a shit if you believe me or not. It's not my mission to validate my existence for you and your little project. Yes, I did talk with Mark Condry. I'm gettin to that. As for proof or whatever you're looking for from me -- did you not read the bottom entry here? The proof is GONE. I can't even prove I was a resident in Idaho anymore. Either you believe me, or you don't. Put up a link if you want to. Get the word out. Let people decide for themselves.

No way in hell am I gonna meet you somewhere. I didn't survive this long by being stupid.

If you want, I can describe Mark for you. I can do that much. I'll send that your way.

As for my last entry, with the formulas, I just wanted to get that written down before I forgot. I'll talk about them more later. Some of it is speculation. Some of it I've seen with my own eyes.

I'm not playing tic tac toe, so none of this xo shit,
- LM

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formulas

Oct. 11th, 2005 | 10:46 am

vomit notes:

if body "fresh" (eaten by house less than 12 hrs) = strings attached
if body "cooked" (inside mouth more than 24 hrs) = no strings visible
if body "stale" (too long ??? time inside mouth) = bones

physical strings = small range, just within house / can't go outside / very very fast movement
no strings = able to go outside and perform basic tasks / slower / used as lure or bait
bones = digested in fluid for too long -OR- house gets hungry


warning signs:
- open sore on nape of neck / last "string" disconnects from here
- repeats phrases
- unusually strong or weak


connection theory:
- Potentially all same house. T/S anomaly.
- Multidimensional.
- Beyond human understanding.

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continued from last entry

Oct. 4th, 2005 | 08:21 pm

Let’s try this again.

Last two times I got on here, I was halfway through typing a new entry when I got kicked out for smelling bad. But late last night I snuck into a condo, took a bath on their rooftop pool, and changed into fresh clothes I bought at the thrift store.

Getting right back to it: The house bled. Not like red human blood, but something else. I got it in my eyes when I chucked that axe into the ceiling. Went to the kitchen and wiped my eyes with a towel, and when I went back to the hall, a trap door had suddenly opened from the ceiling and a set of steps or stairs extended to the floor. Like I had a whole second level or something. I couldn’t see up past the threshold, not because of the angle but because it was so damn dark. At first I thought something black and large was just blocking the way up, but it wasn’t an object.

The smell was the most bizarre. A thick, heavy scent of sweets and baked goods that was trying desperately to drown out the stench of rotting meat. Made me queasy.

And I wanted to go up there. No, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t WANT to go, but at the same time I had this URGE to step up the stairs. Like that’s what happened next, I needed to keep going, maybe just poke my head in and look around in all that dark. I started arguing with myself about it and by the time I finally listened to the screaming in my head I was already two steps off the floor.

I turned and ran fast as I could for the front door. The whole house was making these weird noises overhead, and the walls crackled like I was on an old clipper ship out at sea. The knob on the door wouldn’t turn, and my hands were all sweaty by now.

I tried kicking at the goddamn thing but it was no use. The door would not open. Behind me I heard this loud sound, like a chorus of fat men sucking on their teeth. It came from somewhere in the middle of the house. I wasn’t going to try and get past the stairs to the sliding door in back. It was out the front or not at all.

I grabbed a chair from the little dining area and bashed it against the picture window that looked out on the front yard. Let me tell you, I swung that thing like the bases were loaded. I am no wimp. I once took down a guy a full foot taller than me outside a bar, and that was when I was a little tipsy. But damned if that window didn’t break.

Here’s what it did: It stretched. Like it was made of see-thru skin. That chair bounced back and cracked me in the skull, hard, and I was left bleeding from my scalp. A real gusher.

The carpet in the living room started swaying like it was grass in a breeze, and that smell started filling up the front half of the house, making me wonder why I didn’t walk up the stairs in the first place, making me think the best bet now was to go up and see if there was a way out from the attic, and it took some miracle for me to find my way to the kitchen with a bloody face, hands scrambling for that towel again.

What I found was a bread knife. Those serrated ones with the fork end. I made like I was going back to the living room, then dove at the window again, screaming like a banshee, and

And I fell right onto the porch outside. Was like the window just opened up ahead of me. That knife was Moses and the glass was the fucken Red Sea.

That’s how I remember it. Stone cold truth.

What really did the trick was what I found when I went back two days later.

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new town same Loreen

Sep. 20th, 2005 | 11:33 pm

All it took was one entry on this journal thingy and I had a man in a sweatsuit come trollin around downtown for me. Took me a good week to make sure I had shaken him loose. Now I'm in a different place, new Jetsons cafe, and I got a new shopping cart from the Target down the street. It's a good cart. Got smooth wheels. No pulling to the left or right, no squeaking. I just need to find a good place to sleep tonight.

So, about Boise. I best get to that now before someone finally catches up to me, and now it's really just a matter of time before I'm dragged through the front door of a house that smells like fresh bread and warm blood.

But as I said, they aren't houses.

Here is what I know, and what I said to everyone in the courtroom.

It started with the little things. This was a week after I moved in, summer before my first semester teaching. The sound traveled in odd ways, especially in the kitchen. No echo, even in empty rooms. Now and then I thought I felt the carpet wiggle under my feet. The outlet things, they felt, I don't know how to put it, I guess soft is the word. Like I was jamming the plug into a jar of jelly. Power fluttered a lot, but damned if I could find a fusebox. Thermostat didn't seem to care how I futzed with it, the air just came on when it wanted to, and most the time it was warm and smelled like cinnamon toast.

All of this feels par for the course when you buy a home at auction. I got in on one of these deals where the bank offloads all the real estate they reclaimed from defaulted loans or some shit. You get what you pay for? Not this time. Not even close.

I tried getting into the attic, see if there was anything like a fusebox there. I searched all up and down the house for the trap door to the crawlspace. No sign of it anywhere. So I did what any self-respecting middle aged woman would do. I went out and bought an ax.

Soon as I jammed that ax into the hall ceiling, it all started to go to hell.

Shit, Internet cafe guy is shooing me off. Be back when I can.

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you must hear the truth

Aug. 16th, 2005 | 12:40 pm

My name is Loreen Mathers and I don’t know much about the Internet and I don’t care to. The reason I am in this so-called Internet diner in old downtown (I aint about to tell you which city thank you kindly) is because there is no record of what I did in October of 2001. Not anymore.

I killed a man. Killed him dead. Thing of it was, he was trying to kill me first. I don’t take too kindly to that sort of behavior. At the time, I was in another state from the one with my last known address. A tourist. Never mind I had all my shit in the back of my station wagon and a revolver in my glovebox. To anyone else I was a visitor from out of town. So was the man I shot to death, he wasn’t a local either. See, we both were from Boise.

There was a trial, there were lawyers and all that shit, and I woulda been happy to serve my time in a cell for what I done. One of the safest places for me to be, considerin what I know. But the damn lawyer got me up on the chair next to the judge, and asked me why I did what I did, and I told him. I told all of them. I went on for eleven pages in the court transcripts, laying out everything I know about it. And my big mouth got me just nine months in a mental facility. Nine months. Like my delusion was a pregnancy, and once I’d had it outta me I could go free, out among the world.

Now I’m out. Been out for a few years. I still carry a gun on me too and I am not afraid to kill again if cornered. Maybe I’ve walked right past you but I guarantee you didn’t pay a cent of attention to me, and that is the way I like it. I woulda stayed that way, never to go into one of these coffee places with computers hooked up on the tables like we’re the Jetsons, because anyone who wanted to know the truth just had to read the court transcripts. It was all there.

But they’re gone. Disappeared from Boise police. Man named Mark Condry came looking for them, then calling for me. That’s how I know. Used to be you could type my name into the search engine things like wahoo and my name would get you these news stories about the shooting in Salt Lake City. Now, there’s nothing.

Well I aim to put a stop to that. I’m gonna tell you what happened, and also what happened to that fella Mark, and a slew of other names you may not recognize.

The first thing I can tell you is this: They aren’t houses. Stop thinking of them like houses.

Soon as I can panhandle enough money for another hour on this bitch box I’ll be back.

LM

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