The Holder of the Familiar Path

"To whoever finds this letter,

I am being chased by men in dark coats while writing this. I have a suspicion that I will be killed soon. I think it's this - that I hold in my arms while running away. I don't know whether to trust them, to give them it for safekeeping, or to -."

The letter was torn from where that statement ends, to where this one begins. Sweat marks and bloodstains cover up most of the remains, making the rest almost unreadable, except for these two remaining words.

"I'm sorry."

I was 18 and worked part-time in a mental institution, or a halfway house, or whatever you would like to call it. I can't remember what city or town I was in at the time. I went up to the clerk's desk that day and found nobody there. No one was in any rooms. I screamed for someone to answer me. All I could find was this letter.

I picked it up and read it aloud. Back then, the letter was entirely legible. I don't know why, but I can't remember what the rest of it had said. Back then, though, it was 100% readable. After I read those last words, I found myself at what I might call "home", but all of the furniture had vanished in my living room on the second floor. The entire room was blackened by shadow. If I had looked into those shadows of my former home, I probably wouldn't have been able to tell you what would've happened.

Instead, I looked outside. It was blank, like a white sheet of paper. All I could see was a small girl. She was trying to speak to me through the thick glass window that made no sound able to reach my ears. All I could see was her mouth-out three syllables, "I'm... sor... ry..."

She kept repeating these syllables until I, somehow, was able to hear them in a faint murmur. It started as one voice, then grew into multiple voices, almost demonic. The voices came from behind me, but I dared not look. I had to focus on the girl. She stopped mouthing those two words, but the room kept speaking. I shut my eyes and walked to the front door to open it. I ran out into the blank paper that was outside. I could see nothing, feel nothing, just hear the words "I'm sorry" over and over in my head. It drew me to the brink of insanity. I had to get back, out of his nightmare! Somehow, in the distance was a phone booth. I got in and tried to call for help, but not even a dial tone came out of the receiver. All that resonated from the phone was, "I'm sorry."

I tried to run out of the phone booth, but the door was jammed shut right as I tried to open it. The voices grew louder, to an almost satanic screeching! I had to get out, one way or another! I tried tearing at that damn letter that stuck to me like the plague. No good. I looked outside and saw men walking toward me. Men in black coats.

I looked at them, they stopped for just a second. I couldn't take it anymore. I started clawing at my own neck with my fingernails. With each claw, I yelled, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" and the screams grew with each claw. The next thing I knew, I was back to the center with a torn letter in my hand, all covered in blood.

That letter is Object 608 of 2538. Reading it only brings sorrow to the reader.