M.I.A

The faint sound of a page flipping was all that could be heard in the silent room. Moments later, the scratch of a pencil followed. The man let out a sigh, looking outwards towards the sunset.
Entry 365:M.I.A
It has been three hundred and sixty-five days since I last saw you. An entire year. 
I do not know where you are. Yesterday, they pronounced you as dead. I wept, I wept for the entire day. But something, something inside me, tells me that you're still out there. I don't know where, but I know you're somewhere. Whether or not I see you again, please, be safe. They don't know that you're out there, but I do. I most certainly do, and I will accept no denial of this. You were my world. You aren't gone. 
I refuse to accept it. I will not move on from this until I see you again, even if this means that I will never move on. I've been called crazy — psychopathic, even — but alas, I do not care.
As I said, they pronounced you as dead yesterday. There was a huge investigation, but they found nothing. Nothing. This is why I know you're out there. If anything happened to you, I would have moved on. I would have wept and wept and wept and then I would finally move on, knowing that your impact on my life was positive, and that I should leave it that way. But no. Not this time. You are alive, out there, somewhere. 
And when I write this, sitting in our once-shared room, staring out at the violet sunset, I don't know if I can find you. Not here. When I remember you — when I think about where you could be — I cannot imagine a place here. Not in South Carolina, not in the States, not even on Earth. Wherever you are, I know that something is wrong.
So terribly wrong. I just pray that you can overcome that. 
He looks down, as tears begin to flow form his eyes. What had he, or his brother, done to deserve such a fate?
Far, far away, another man flips to a page in a notebook, the sound being the only thing heard in the empty bedroom.
Entry 171:The "Backrooms"
It has been about one-hundred and seventy-one days since I found a safe place to stay, and I'd say about a year since I fell into this horrific labyrinth. The people I've met up with call it "Noclipping." Evidently, they've been looking for the fabled "Major Explorer Group," a group of people that would solve all of their — or our — problems.
We have searched for months. I don't know if they exist, but I can only pray that they do. This place is terrifying. If ever I get separated from my group, I don't know what will happen to me. I assume death, be it from blatant fear, starvation, or dehydration.
Or, worst yet, that thing. I don't know what it was, nor if it was even real. Some of the people I've met up with told me I could have just been terrified, but no. I didn't see it clearly, but I was walking about, and in the corner of my eye, I saw it. Some horrifically tall, vaguely humanoid figure, bolting throughout the maze akin to something from a horror movie. With that, I ran. I heard it behind me for a few minutes, before the sound faded.
I was so exhausted that I fainted. That's when I met everyone. We never saw anything like that again, but we weren't safe for a while. Until we founded the Base, here, where we spend our days rationing food and praying that the M.E.G may someday find us. Whether or not they will, I know not. Whether or not they care to, I know not.
This brings me to the reason I began keeping this diary in the first place; you. Brother, I cannot express how much I miss you. I can only pray that you have moved on, though. I don't think you'll be seeing me any time soon.
One of the older members of our group — he's about fifty if I'm not mistaken — told us stories about different "floors" of this place. We call it "the Backrooms." He detailed several floors, saying we're on the second floor. We don't know how he knows all this. He refuses to speak of it. Nevertheless, he has gone on to describe many, many floors of the Backrooms. And in none of those fables did he ever mention an escape. 
Brother, I will grip on to hope as it is the last thing I have. Whilst I know that you will likely never read this... I just want you to know that this hope that I valiantly hold is so, so likely false. Please. I want the best for you. Go on with your life.
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Category:Tales