The+Wicker+Man

 Not quite done yet.

Am I the only one who can see them? Can it be that my friends, my family, my neighbors are blind to all that they do not wish to see? Possibly, yes, this is true. I know they are there, for I have watched them these past nights, their faceless bodies that stare blankly in to the dust for hours upon end, until at last they depart! No, no, I am not mad, I am not hallucinating, indeed, I am the only one left with an ounce of his original sanity. I alone know the troubles that they have endured to keep their very existence a mystery to the so-called "rational" human beings in the world. They are clever, that is why, they are cleverer than I ever gave them credit for. Even now, I know they are searching for me, hoping to kill me before I can reveal their blasphemous existence, but I will not let the truth die.

Know now, that I am not sick, neither in body nor in mind, nor was I sick when I first noticed the strange happenings of this putrid town. I first knew something was amiss when there came a cry in the early hours of the morning from the Jennings house some ways up the hill. Like all of mankind, I was interested in the fate of my social companions, and so, grabbing from atop my dresser yesterdays clothes, I rushed from my humble abode towards the source of the commotion. My vantage point from the small, graveled path leading upwards gave me a view of the gathering crowd, which put me and my investigative nature at somewhat of a disadvantage, for my small house was situated near the wooded park, and all of the town would almost certainly arive before me, a great hinderance towards any possible view of the scenery.

It was upon arrival that I noticed the audacity of what had occurred, and I'd have never thought that such an event could occur in Geneva. Strewn across the road was the body of Mr. Earl Jennings, beaten and bloodied. I could see in the ground where he rested evidence of a struggle, for streaks of blood were wiped in nearly parrellel lines only a few feet from where he had fallen, and although it was coagulated, it could not have been there for over an hour or two, for the blood was not yet entirerly dry. Jennings himself seemed the victim of a knifing, for dotted across his limbs were punctures, evenly spaced and of equal length. The eyes though, those eyes were what interested me the most, for even from the edge of the crowd, I could see that there was something inhuman about their quality, and sought to alieve my curiousity. Nudging aside those who stood in my path, I made my way in to the ring, becoming the focus of attention almost as if I had violated some tribal taboo.