The Journal of Sullivan Jones

== PART I ==
August 12, 1992
Just found this old
composition book, and I've decided that I should write down some of my
feelings, just to get them out, you know? I start eighth grade next week, and I
guess that's alright. I just don't want what happened last year to end up
happening again this year.
August 15, 1992 
I didn't quite
write down everything that I wanted to the other night, but as with the
previous years of school, ever since I started living with my dad in the fifth
grade, I've started to "space out". And I don't just mean here and
there; I mean I literally turn into a different person whenever I'm with other
kids. I become loud, obnoxious, and a total fucking weirdo. It was the worst
when I first came to live with my dad in the fifth grade, but it's slowly
gotten better over the past three years. It's a shame, because I kind of like
the 'real me', you know? I suppose that on the inside I'm quiet and reserved,
pretty much the opposite of that version of myself I turn into when I
"space out".
Another thing that
sucks about this stupid shit is that I can't really remember much about
anything. When I'm not present, everything's just a fucking blur. And I'm
almost NEVER present when I'm at school. Man, this is fucking depressing.
Nobody ever actually ever SEES the real me, you know? I'm always just that
weird kid with no self-control. But the thing is, I can't stop it. It just
happens. Sometimes I worry that my soul will just die and I'll become an empty
shell of a human being if this shit keeps going on like this.
September 11, 1992 
Oh, GOD I feel
fucking sick. It feels like--
September 19, 1992 
I'm getting a bit
better, but that's a bit of a relative way of putting it. I'm not spewing up
blood and shit every two seconds, but I still feel like I was hit by a fucking
train. Before I got sick, though, I started spacing out again, but instead of
it being somewhat better than last year, it's just getting progressively worse.
The last bit at school I remembered is just sitting at a desk, but after that
it's just a blank until I got home. That was the day before I got sick. How the
hell am I supposed to learn anything in school? Or even PASS, much less? I
don't fucking know.
September 28, 1992 
I seriously can't
remember the past week at all, except for when I'm at home, which is such a
blur I might as well not be able to remember that, either. My grades are
fucking horrible. I literally cannot
do the work because I can't remember the school day whatsoever. In fact, the
only reason at all I know I'm even going to school is because of the new
homework I get in my backpack at night.
October 11, 1992
Yesterday was my
friend Colton's fourteenth birthday. He had me and some other guys over there
last night, and we sat around a campfire next to a creek in his side yard. It
was pretty cool, and I can actually remember the night clearly, for once.
But... Something was off. I kept seeing something move in the shadows, and I
couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't watching US, but me specifically. It
was always out of the corner of my eye, though. I couldn't look directly at it.
I told the others, but we couldn't find anything. I suppose it was just my
imagination.
As far as school
goes, it's been pretty much the same as far as what I wrote in that last entry.
My parents are pissed about my grades, of course, and I tried to explain to
them what's been going on, but they just won't listen to me. And I haven't told
my therapist, either, because I don't want to be sent to the Funny Farm. So I
guess I just can't trust anybody.
October 31, 1992
I'd be out with
friends tonight, but I don't trust myself. The other night, I was just sitting
at home, minding my own business, when everything went blank. Then the next
thing I knew, I was three miles away in a tunnel under a highway beating the
living shit out of a ten-year-old. I was wearing a ski mask (which I never even
owned before) so I don't think the kid'll know who it was that beat him up. I
called 911 on a pay phone nearby, and ran the fuck home.
God, what if I'd killed him?
November 16, 1992 
I can barely
remember anything at all now, whether I'm at school or not. I'm writing this
during one of the few lucid periods I have. None of my friends want anything to
do with me anymore. They say that I'm violent and cruel. How, I don't know.
They won't stay on the phone long enough to elaborate. And I'm grounded at home
for being "unruly". Why? Why is this happening? It isn't my fault.
Nobody wants anything to do with me anymore. What did I do to deserve this?
December 2, 1992 
HA! TORMENT ON YOUR
BEHALF!
December 3, 1992 
I don't remember
writing that last entry. It's not even my handwriting. The letters are too
angry and deep. God, what the hell is wrong with me?
December 6, 1992 
YOU MUST LISTEN TO
THE PROPHET.
December 16, 1992 
Again, that fucking
handwriting. It's not me. It's the Prophet. I know it. I just do.
January 1, 1993 
The Prophet speaks
to me now. In my head. It tells me to do
things, things like kill people. But I don't want to. No! I won't!
I can't help but
wonder what I'm like most of the time. I don't remember Christmas at all. Happy
fucking New Year.
January 7, 1993 
Oh, God, oh, God,
oh, God! I can't take any more of
this. I just can't take any fucking more. I just can't. I wish I could stop
crying. Fuck that, I wish I could just fucking die. But I can't. I fucking can't. The Prophet says I can't, and I
just know it's right. I can't die. Not yet. It's not through with me yet, it says.
I found myself in a
field a few hours ago, around midnight. I was covered in blood with half-eaten
organs around me. On the ground around me were at least ten mutilated cow
carcasses. I never meant to! I swear, I didn't! I love animals! I would never want to hurt an animal, but I did. I
wish I knew where my dad's shotgun was. I know some people who deserve to die
for my sins.
January 23, 1993 
I keep seeing it
out of the corner of my eye. But everyone I try to look at it, it's gone.
Just like that.
"Poof bang
WAT!" Said the cat.
February 10, 1993 
THE END IS FAR BUT
NEAR.
February 15, 1993 
I keep seeing that
goddamn handwriting. Not just in my journal, but everywhere I go. On the walls,
on the ground, everywhere.
February 21, 1993 
That thing's been
visiting me at night, but I can't really tell what it looks like in the dark. 
Funny, I can't
really remember anything at all now. The only times I'm lucid are when I see
that thing out of the corner of my eyes, when it watches me at night, and the
few random times I'm lucid enough to write in this journal. I can almost look
directly at it, but it just scuttles away, its movement quick and unnatural.
March 4, 1993 
Everyday my
handwriting is getting more and more like the prophet's. I just need to carve those letters into somebody’s FUCKING forehead.
More more more more
more more more more more. EVERY FUCKING DAY!!!
March 7, 1993 
I've been dreading
writing about this, but there've been more instances like the one at the cow
pasture. But this last one... oh, God, it was people.
But the Prophet
says that I did good and that he loves me. I'm proud.
March 16, 1993
YOU WILL BE FOUND
OUT.
March 17, 1993 
They've found me.
The Prophet tells me so. They're on their way right now. I finally found my
dad's shotgun. I'M SORRY! No, not
you, Dad! Go to fucking Hell!
It's clattering
down the hallway. Maybe it will--
== PART II ==
August 12, 2002 
I found this
composition book in the bathroom at school today. It was all ratty and
waterlogged, but I took it anyway. I didn't read it until it dried this
afternoon, though. I guess... It's some kind of horror story. I wish there was
a name on it, though, so I could give it back to whoever wrote it.
Why did I write
this as a new entry? Whatever.
August 15, 2002
Found out who the
author of this is. At the very bottom of the back cover, written in tiny black
letters on top of black is my name. It literally reads: "PROPERTY OF SULLIVAN JONES". Not
very many people have "Sullivan" as a first name, much less with my
last name too. The thing is, I don't remember writing any of this. This is just a story, right? The whole name thing is
seriously freaking me the fuck out.
September 11, 2002 
This past week has
been a blur. At school, at least. Everything's normal at home. Shit, what was
my homework for History? It's my last period, I should remember this. Fuck it.
I don't care. I never do my homework anyway.
So seeing as this
is the third entry I've made in here, I guess I'll just go ahead and use this
thing as my journal. Just get shit out, you know? I'm feeling kind of sick. I
should probably go get some rest.
September 19, 2002 
It's coming back.
Memories of eighth grade year. But not from last year like it should be. No,
it's from ten years ago. But I was just a little kid then. How can I have
memories of being fourteen ten years ago when I just turned fifteen in July? It
doesn't make any sense. Those memories can't be real. But...they aren't fully
developed memories, they're more like snapshots, if that makes any sense. I
just remember being terrified of something. This Prophet thing, probably. It's
all still a haze. Why is it called "the Prophet", anyways? Prophets
are supposed to predict the future, but this thing, whatever it is, only does
that once at the end when it says, "YOU WILL BE FOUND OUT". None of
this makes any sense, no fucking sense whatsoever.
September 28, 2002 
The more clear the
past becomes, the more of a blur the present is. I can't really remember the
past week at all.
October 11, 2002 
It's my friend
Colton's fifteenth birthday today, and I was supposed to go to his house for
the party, but I got in a fight at school, so Mom won't let me. I don't even
remember what it was about. In fact, that fight is the only thing I remember
from this past week at school.
October 31, 2002 
Shit, I fucked up.
Oh, shit I fucked up! I woke up
today... in a field... With blood on my shirt. But it wasn't cow blood like it
was ten years ago. Remember Colton? Yeah, well I must have killed him, because
his dead body was on the ground in front of me. I hid it in an abandoned barn
nearby.
God, I killed my
friend....
November 16, 2002 
Christ, I can't
even remember life at home anymore. It used to just be at school or when I was
with my friends that was completely blank. What's even the point of living
anymore, when I'm only alive for a few minutes every once in a while?
December 2, 2002 
HA! TORMENT ON YOUR
BEHALF!
December 3, 2002 
Jesus, it's that
handwriting all over again. And to think that ten years ago I thought I could
actually escape this nightmare. Ha! What a laugh! There is no escape from this thing. Maybe suicide would have worked, if it had let me. But it's never once, in the
past one hundred years, allowed me to die by any hand other than its own. I can
remember, now. 1992 wasn't the first year that I experienced this nightmare.
No, it was 1902 when it first happened. I was five years old. Then, in 1903, it
ate me. And that happened again in 1912... 1922... 1932.... Every ten years it
happens again, only except I'm one year older than I was the previous time.
But… if this is some sort of sick, twisted reincarnation cycle, then how is it
that right now I’m fifteen years old, but ten years ago I was five and fourteen
years old at the same time? Is this
curse just dumped onto some new kid named Sullivan Jones every ten years? Is
that it? Or… or is it somehow possible to be alive in two bodies at the same
time? Can a soul be in two places at once? Can it be divided into two souls and
then rejoined? Or maybe it constantly flickers between the two bodies until one
body dies. I don’t know. I don’t understand, I just don’t. But it seems that by
this thing, this Prophet, eating me, it is then able to put me into a new cycle
later, which leads me to believe that it deposits my cursed soul into a new
body. But if that’s the case, then what happens to the soul of the new body?
Does it die? Does that Prophet thing eat it for food? Or does it become fused
into the new one? Is my soul just some sort of Frankenstein conglomeration of
other souls? 
If it’s true that
this ten-year cycle is perpetrated by being eaten by that thing, then it seems
that the only way to end this is to either kill myself or kill it.
December 6, 2002
 YOU MUST LISTEN TO
THE PROPHET.
December 16, 2002 
For some reason,
after seeing that last entry, an idea occurred to me. The reason it’s called
the Prophet isn’t because it predicts
the future, but because it makes the
future. And the Prophet tells me I’m right.
January 1, 2003 
I can’t remember
Christmas at all. The Prophet says happy New Year, love.
January 7, 2003 
Oh, Christ, it
happened again. A-fucking-gain. I should have seen this coming. God, how could
I not have seen this coming?
I woke up in a cow
pasture a few hours ago, around midnight, with slaughtered cows all around me.
It must have been the Prophet, I know it, because how the hell could I rip open
ten cows with my bare hands? But… I did eat
some of their organs. I was eating a liver when I became lucid, and there were
other half-eaten organs around me. And for that, the Prophet tells me that I
did GOOD GOOD GOOD GOOD GOOD GOOD! OH, GOD, PLEASE KILL ME NOW!
January 23, 2003 
I can almost see
the Prophet now, just out of the corner of my eye. But then it’s gone. Gone
with the wind!
February 10, 2003 
THE END IS FAR BUT
NEAR.
February 15, 2003 
That handwriting. I
see that handwriting. I see that handwriting everywhere. Everyyyyyywherrrrrre….
February 21, 2003 
It visits me at
night, now, hiding in the shadows. The only memories I have of daily existence
now are the times that I see it. But I can’t see it clearly, though. It’s
either hidden in the shadows, or I see it out of the corner of my eye. If it
isn’t hidden, then it just scuttles away. The movement it makes just looks so
goddamn gross.
March 4, 2003 
My letters take
after the PROPHET now. I JUST NEED TO CARVE THOSE LETTERS INTO SOMEBODY’S
FUCKNG FACE! The PROPHET tells me so!
March 7, 2003
The PROPHET, no me,
no the PROPHET, no me NO THE PROPHET, NO ME, NO THE PROPHET, US, US, US, US,
USSS, USSSSSS! We’ve been killing people. Oh, God, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH
ME!?
March 16, 2003 
I’m going to die. I
am going to fucking die. I know it. I
just fucking know it. My dad took me fishing last night near his father’s
house. I didn’t fish, because I think it’s cruel to the fish, but as I was
sitting there in the darkness, gloriously bored out of my mind, I couldn’t
shake the feeling that something was watching me. So, I eventually grabbed a
flashlight and looked behind me into the black woods behind me. I didn’t see
anything, so I just dismissed it as nothing. This repeated itself for several
hours. 
Around midnight, I
had to use the bathroom, so I went into the woods to relieve myself. And as I
was relieving myself, I thought I saw something moving in the shadows, but I
just told myself it was a deer. (Oh, how idiotic that was of me!) I walked back
to my chair, and again became victim to that feeling of being watched. So, I
turned on the flashlight and looked behind me, but, again, I saw nothing and
dismissed it as my nerves getting the better of me. By this point, I was
becoming seriously annoyed, so I tried ignoring it. It took about thirty seconds
before I couldn't stand it anymore. And when I shone that bright, beaming light
behind me, I saw it, the PROPHET, clearly for the first time. I don't think
I'll ever be able to get that picture out of my head, NO I WON'T, BABY!
It was some sort of
monster; yes, definitely some sort of
fucking monster. Or maybe a ghost, but can ghosts kill you, mutilate you, and
eat you? If so, then I suppose it could have once been the ghost of a human,
maybe, just maybe, my children.
It appeared to be
naked, but I could see no sexual giveaways. It crawled on all fours, but its
limbs… it's limbs were about three times as long as they should have been, with
the elbows pointed inwards. Its hands were long and slender, a foot long, at least,
with huge sharp talons all the better to tear you with! Its skin was pale and
slimy, with bulbous, oozing growths all over it. And there’s no way it should
have able to hold its head up, for its neck was like a long pale stick jutting
out from its narrow shoulders. It's eyes… They seem to have been torn out at
some point, for there were just bloody holes where they should have been. And
it's long, gaping, extended mouth was full of long, rotting fangs and had blood
trickling down its chin. I think it might’ve had hair, long, black, and oily,
but I can't remember.
And as I sat there,
frozen in horror at its grotesque beauty, it shrieked at me. Oh, by golly it
shrieked. It shrieked a high, grating, unnatural shriek. And it was at this
point that my despicable father bolted into the woods, abandoning me to
whatever fate the DIVINES may have bestowed upon me. Fortunately for me, it
scurried that quick, painful scuttle after him, gutted him with a single swipe
of its claws, and commenced to gorge itself upon his intestines. I saw my
chance, and, feeling no sense of remorse or responsibility towards my screaming
father, I sprinted as fast as I could into the woods.
The next thing I
remember is hiding in someone's garage, trying to hang myself with an extension
cord, when the police burst in. Then, just about, oh, half an hour ago, I'd
say, I suddenly found myself in a holding cell with my journal and a pencil on
the bench next to me.
Somehow, I don't
think an officer put it there.
Date Unknown, 2003 
Somehow, I've found
myself in a padded cell with a straight jacket unfastened on the ground.
HAHAHA! And guess what? I still have this fucking journal! Well, FUCK ME
SIDEWAYS! I’M OFFICIALLY INSANE! ALL THANKS TO MY GOOD FRIEND, THE ONE AND ONLY
PROPHET! HAHAHA! HARDY-HAR-FUCKIN’-HAR! And you know what the best part is? I have no way to kill myself! I'm just a
sitting duck for when the Prophet wants to kill me, and I know it’s soon, I
just know it!
For more, go here.
For a less shitty version click here.
Category:Beings
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Diary/Journal