I Have To Tell You A Story

Happy almost Friday the 13 my fiends!

Firstly I want to start off saying it’s been three/four days since my last post. It may seem like nothing to some, but I have, even after my three hundred and sixty-five day challenge finished, attempted to at least post something each day. Now if you’re keeping count there is technically five days since June I’ve missed a day, that’s not counting the current three/four days I’ve just skipped over, there, I said it.

For four hours I’ve sat here, trying to figure out how I was going to lead into the reason for my absence, four hours of nothing but a constant back and forth conversation with myself, should I just jump straight in, should I work up to it, or, as I have, go in blind and see where it leads me.

Anyway, before my nervous prattling on bores you enough to stop reading, I’ll get to the story.

As many of you know, I’m not a writer by trade, I want to be, but life’s circumstances apparently have other ideas for me, as father and husband, I can’t avoid life’s requirements, for my family need me to earn an income, and, although some indie writers can earn a nice living from their writing, but sadly, for me, I seem to write in a genre that doesn’t have a very big audience.

Once again I’ve lost track of where I’m going, so, I started working as a night cleaner for a family friend, he was looking for an offsider, and wanted to help out because he knew I was out of work. At first my pride got in the way, and I refused the offer, did the whole thanks for the opportunity shit, but I’ve got degrees, certifications and other worthless pieces of paper saying I can do all sorts of shit, but none of them say, I’m a cleaner.

Eight days ago we received three utility at the same time, totaling a huge chunk of cash we didn’t have, so I called Corey and said if the job was still open I’d take it.

Four hours late I was cleaning a shitter that wasn’t mine, first time in my middle classed life I’d ever felt lower than I was, but this isn’t a dig at society, or anyone else’s profession, because, every job needs someone to work it, and as someone who was an avid viewer of Mike Rowe’s, Dirty Jobs, I knew these people all had a boat load of skill.

Anyway, What I can only assume was five days ago, I was on the job, at some fucking shit box office building, seems this was a big ticket for Corey, and he’d only just scored the contract when he knew o was coming on board.

We’d been cleaning for almost two hours when I found a door none of the keys Corey had given me would open. I called him on the two-way, apparently he preferred these to mobiles as there was no added cost, especially since they rechargeable, he told me to leave it be and get on with the rest of the floor.

Thirty minutes later, I ended back up at the door, tried all the keys again, which, by the way, still didn’t work.

That’s when I heard a noise coming from the room, at first it was a faint hum, and then it got louder, to the point, the floor beneath my feet was vibrating. I tried Corey but only received static for my tries, I instinctively pulled out my phone next, but it wouldn’t connect to a service, so I decided to hightail it out of there and find Corey for myself, as I got halfway down the hallway I turned back, the whole level itself was shaking like an earthquake was taking place, and I noticed the fucking door was open.

My first and only instinct was to run like fuck and get the hell out of there,  but for some reason I instead, ran to the doorway, I think part of me was hoping I could sort out whatever it was that was cause all this shit.

Now I only stuck my head a little way in the door when the explosion happened, it was like, the brightest mother-fucking light I’d ever seen, and for a few moments I swear, I thought I was going to be blind forever, but then I heard birds singing, and felt the wind on my face.

That was this afternoon.

Almost four days passed in a matter of seconds, no one believes me, my wife thinks I’m having an affair, Corey won’t talk to me because he lost the contract of the building, and some guy called Gale Weatherby keeps calling me about a promise he made to his great-grandmother on her death-bed.

Her name was Francesca De Mones, and apparently, ninety-seven years ago, she fell in love with, and, according to Gale, pregnant to, a man by the name of Matthew Tonks.

He has a photo he wants to show me.

I guess you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this, well, besides the need to get all this out, I wanted to let you know I’m going back to the building tonight, and I’m going to find out what’s in that room, one way or another.

So, if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry too much, I’ll probably turn up some time soon.





This October is going to be grand, for there is many a twisted thing taking place along this winding road, so buckle up my insane fiends, I’d hate to see some of you not make it to our final destination!!

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