Diary # 2

They, whoever they are decided to show me that I wasn’t alone, they decided, with the touch of a button on a remote control to show me who was next door to me. Upon pressing the button the wall began to slide up like something out of a fucking James Bond movie revealing some guy next door. He was sitting on the floor, leaning up against his bed staring at the ceiling, dribbling and smiling. He looked completely out of it. I asked who he was and was told he was like me – a writer. I asked what this was all about and they told me they needed me to finish my latest novel the way it was supposed to be finished.

You see I am, or maybe I was a successful pulp horror writer with four books behind me in a series dealing with a character who hunts monsters. Cool but not exactly high brow… who cares? I write what I like. But I decided to take book five in a different direction and my publishers didn’t like that they - - - shit. Fuck.

Anyway, apparently the reason this guy was looking out of his head is because they had done stuff to him, fed him a bunch of hallucinogenic drugs, that is apparently supposed to aid imagination and inspiration. They told me if I ever hit a wall, if I ever get writers block, if I ever stop writing, they will give the same treatment to help. Sounded more like a threat to me…

Diary Entry # 1

It’s hard to figure out how long I have been here. Hell, it’s hard to know if this message on this site is even getting out there. But I’m writing this anyway, regardless of knowing whether it is reaching anyone. You see they have given me net access, I am guessing they have given everyone net access who is here on the farm, but it is hard to tell. I know for a fact that there is no way I can email anyone – tried that one already and nothing – I’m just trying to figure out why we have access to the world wide web. Research I guess. Even if I could get a message out to someone, to try and get help it wouldn’t help. Wouldn’t help at all. You see I have no fucking idea as to where I am. I woke up in a field, the last thing I remember was crashing my car, then I wake up in a field with not a scratch on me. Then someone hits me from behind and I am in this room…

My name is Jack Burton, I’m a writer, maybe you have read my stuff, maybe you haven’t, its not important anymore I suppose. I just need to find a way out of this place. I probably shouldn't be posting this, I probably shouldn't be attempting to make contact with anyone outside of my room... but... fuck it, if this is the last one I post and someone reads it... I don't know, try and find me I guess, let someone know where I am, that I am alive as this was written and if anyone knows me who is reading this and they know where Melissa is... tell her... tell her something.