Dicky, Thursday 03.02.11
Well, now that I have the floor, it seems only fair that I tell you everything I know.
My briefcase arrived on April 3rd of last year, placed on my porch like it was a fucking present from the Easter bunny. It came with a note attached - Welcome to the circle - so I immediately assumed that it was from Harry. Unlike you chumps, I didn't sit about waiting for some magic code, I took the lock off with an axe that afternoon (and if you've got brain-one in that huge melon on top of your neck, Shakespeare, you'll do the same when you've finished reading this). Inside I found photocopies of the notebooks, just like Emily did, which not only heightened my suspicion that the briefcase was from Harrison but also led me to the conclusion that Harry must've gotten the notebooks from you.
I went over to Harry's the next day but the son-of-a-bitch was gone. His house looked like it had been run over with a steam train, the fence was busted to pieces and the windows were all smashed in. His next-door neighbour told me that Harry had been arrested in a mother-fucking drug raid! Now, I know what you're thinking, Koontz, horseshit, right? But it was true. Harry's new girlfriend, some stupid air-head blonde with her tits up to her chin, was holding the stuff there for her ex-husband. Harry was two months into his nine month sentence when I received the briefcase, so it couldn't have possibly been him that put it on my doorstep.
Which meant that it was either you or Emily, was what I figured at the time, and there was no chance in hell I was going to go back to the shire to see if Emily knew anything about it, so I went looking for you.
And I found you, playing house with that beautiful young girl of yours. That's right, Dillinger, I found you. You can't just sneak off and live happily ever after without leaving a trail of bread crumbs in your wake.
Anyway, you seemed so happy and settled that I didn't want to rock your perfect world if I didn't have to, so I went back to my new life and pretended that I hadn't just received an almighty kick in the ass from the past.
And then, a few months ago, around the beginning of October, some pretty creepy shit started to happen. First, my dog went missing and then, a few days after that, some mother-fucker started writing weird ass messages on my driveway. This went on for a fortnight or so, nonsense scribbled on my driveway every morning, until I got up the nerve to sit on the front porch with a baseball bat and wait for the son-of-a-bitch.
And do you know who it was, Colombo? It was fucking Emily! I was all ready to smash her pretty little head in until I saw her face. She was in some sort of a strange trance, like something out of the twilight zone. It took quite a lot for me to pin her ass down and get her to listen to me - and even then all I got was strange growling noises out of her.
I locked her in the bathroom and in the morning, she couldn't remember a damn thing. And that's when I realised that she had been infected. I sure hope that you kept your hands to yourself in that hotel room, Don Juan. We know that the virus can be passed on my biting which leads me to think that it's something to do with bodily fluids. Tell me, Kessler, is your dick hairy?
Anyway, Emily and I exchanged E-mail addresses that day and she's been keeping me posted since then. She told me all about killing Molly and your secret rendezvous.
And then, recently, strange people have been showing up, standing on the street corner at night, watching my house. I'm sure they been in here while I've been at work, little things have been put back in slightly different places to where I left 'em and my e-mail accounts keep telling me that I'm already logged in when I try to check them at work.
One things for damn sure, these people must've followed Emily to my house and if you've been back in the shire, they'll have followed you to yours too. Your perfect world is about to get rocked something fierce, Twain. Keep us posted.
