u/Agreeable_Creme2929

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

Ok to clarify, I’m writing a meta fiction novel inspired by works like Bram Stoker’s Dracula or House of leaves. And I’m currently trying to decide a core part of the story.

The core idea behind the book is the ability to interpret the characters and out story and folds in different ways. And one of the ideas that I have forward is that the main characters can be interpreted as the same person.

In the sense within the context of the story, one of them is searching for the other one after he disappeared until eventually, he also disappears before he does, though he sent all of his evidence and when he’s found his editor because he was a journalist. His editor, then compile all of that into a publishable piece of work with his own added you know detail details, researching information like a third character or third protagonist.

So I’m trying to figure out if it would be more interesting. The idea in which that they can both be interpreted as the same person, the journalist and the Freind he searching for or if it’s better that they’re interpreted psychologically as the same person. Like they’re physically two different people, but in his pursuit for his friend, psychologically, he falls into the same pitfalls as him becoming somewhat of the same person as he also projects himself onto his missing Friend.

This also changes if they physically look distinctly different. because of the interpretation for them, possibly to be the same person they have to at least look semi similar. I just don’t know which one is a more interesting idea. I would love for feedback or alternative ideas.

Because there’s also the idea that the editor is traumatized from something that happened in his past, it’s explaining in the book and he could also possibly be making up the whole story as a way of coping. I have a few ideas for this Meta commentary. If you ever read house of leaves you would get.

Ok to clarify, I’m writing a meta fiction novel inspired by works like Bram Stoker’s Dracula or House of leaves. And I’m currently trying to decide a core part of the story.

The core idea behind the book is the ability to interpret the characters and out story and folds in different ways. And one of the ideas that I have forward is that the main characters can be interpreted as the same person.

In the sense within the context of the story, one of them is searching for the other one after he disappeared until eventually, he also disappears before he does, though he sent all of his evidence and when he’s found his editor because he was a journalist. His editor, then compile all of that into a publishable piece of work with his own added you know detail details, researching information like a third character or third protagonist.

So I’m trying to figure out if it would be more interesting. The idea in which that they can both be interpreted as the same person, the journalist and the Freind he searching for or if it’s better that they’re interpreted psychologically as the same person. Like they’re physically two different people, but in his pursuit for his friend, psychologically, he falls into the same pitfalls as him becoming somewhat of the same person as he also projects himself onto his missing Friend.

This also changes if they physically look distinctly different. because of the interpretation for them, possibly to be the same person they have to at least look semi similar. I just don’t know which one is a more interesting idea. I would love for feedback or alternative ideas.

Because there’s also the idea that the editor is traumatized from something that happened in his past, it’s explaining in the book and he could also possibly be making up the whole story as a way of coping. I have a few ideas for this Meta commentary. If you ever read house of leaves you would get.

Ok to clarify, I’m writing a novel fiction novel inspired by works like Bram Stoker’s Dracula or House of leaves. And I’m currently trying to decide a core part of the story.

The core idea behind the book is the ability to interpret the characters and out story and folds in different ways. And one of the ideas that I have forward is that the main characters can be interpreted as the same person.

In the sense within the context of the story, one of them is searching for the other one after he disappeared until eventually, he also disappears before he does, though he sent all of his evidence and when he’s found his editor because he was a journalist. His editor, then compile all of that into a publishable piece of work with his own added you know detail details, researching information like a third character or third protagonist.

So I’m trying to figure out if it would be more interesting. The idea in which that they can both be interpreted as the same person, the journalist and the Freind he searching for or if it’s better that they’re interpreted psychologically as the same person. Like they’re physically two different people, but in his pursuit for his friend, psychologically, he falls into the same pitfalls as him becoming somewhat of the same person as he also projects himself onto his missing Friend.

This also changes if they physically look distinctly different. because of the interpretation for them, possibly to be the same person they have to at least look semi similar. I just don’t know which one is a more interesting idea. I would love for feedback or alternative ideas.

Because there’s also the idea that the editor is traumatized from something that happened in his past, it’s explaining in the book and he could also possibly be making up the whole story as a way of coping. I have a few ideas for this Meta commentary. If you ever read house of leaves you would get.

Ok to clarify, I’m writing a novel fiction novel inspired by works like Bram Stoker’s Dracula or House of leaves. And I’m currently trying to decide a core part of the story.

The core idea behind the book is the ability to interpret the characters and out story and folds in different ways. And one of the ideas that I have forward is that the main characters can be interpreted as the same person.

In the sense within the context of the story, one of them is searching for the other one after he disappeared until eventually, he also disappears before he does, though he sent all of his evidence and when he’s found his editor because he was a journalist. His editor, then compile all of that into a publishable piece of work with his own added you know detail details, researching information like a third character or third protagonist.

So I’m trying to figure out if it would be more interesting. The idea in which that they can both be interpreted as the same person, the journalist and the Freind he searching for or if it’s better that they’re interpreted psychologically as the same person. Like they’re physically two different people, but in his pursuit for his friend, psychologically, he falls into the same pitfalls as him becoming somewhat of the same person as he also projects himself onto his missing Friend.

This also changes if they physically look distinctly different. because of the interpretation for them, possibly to be the same person they have to at least look semi similar. I just don’t know which one is a more interesting idea. I would love for feedback or alternative ideas.

Because there’s also the idea that the editor is traumatized from something that happened in his past, it’s explaining in the book and he could also possibly be making up the whole story as a way of coping. I have a few ideas for this Meta commentary. If you ever read house of leaves you would get.