February 15th: Our story begins in a dilapidated house near Kalamazoo University, its stone facade sagging under years of neglect. Every boarded-up window is plastered with warning signs. It was built in an era when homes were constructed with classic American asbestos, but not so long ago that the property was still in use.
It was purchased by a flipper who had no idea what she was getting into. One of the workmen sent to remove the asbestos from the building is a friend of mine—Nino Savant. The most notable things about him are his impressive beard and his lifelong quest to prove the existence of the supernatural.
Nino took every job that gave him access to the creepiest buildings Michigan has to offer. I’ve got to give him credit—after a decade in the game, he’s never once been arrested for trespassing.
Genius idea. Wish I’d thought of it.
From day one on the job, Nino felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he wasn’t the only one who sensed something was wrong with the place. Other members of the asbestos removal team complained of headaches and nausea. More than a few men quit outright, insisting that it wasn’t safe to be there, that the whole structure was going to collapse. It didn’t lean right.
Nino told me that every building has a bit of a lean to it. No matter how well built a structure is, gravity and the elements will have their way with it. Roofs sag, foundations crack, floors bend and bubble. And if that building is neglected, the decay sets in all the faster.
The poisoned brownstone in downtown Kalamazoo was no different, yet it was different. The floors might look as though they leaned to the right, but the pull of gravity made you lean the other way, and each room seemed to twist in its own direction. The walls and ceilings were no better. They left the workmen feeling as though they were lurching drunkenly through some carnival funhouse. Even the sunlight that crept in through the boarded-up windows shone at all the wrong angles.
The day Nino Savant discovered the diary, he had wandered off from his seven-man crew. He’d spent all morning telling his co-workers that he might have a stomach bug. It was a total lie, but it’s easy to lie when you’re wearing a hood, goggles, and a respirator mask. He wandered to an untouched wing of the house and pulled out the ghost-hunting gear he’d hidden inside his flash-spun, high-density polyethylene coveralls. He slowly tracked his way from the study to the kitchen and back again. None of his tools picked up anything—not his EMP meter, EVP recorder, or even his spirit box.
It was on his third trip from the kitchen to the study that the floor gave way beneath him, and he tumbled ass over teakettle down a hidden stairway to an equally hidden basement. He lay there for a while, his legs splayed against the wooden door at the bottom of the stairs. The only good thing about his aching back and pounding skull was that it proved he wasn’t dead or paralyzed.
Once Nino got back to his feet, he took a moment to examine the door. He expected it to be locked, but it swung open easily, revealing a small room. Strange maps and charts, long faded, hung on the walls. An old writing desk with a lantern was in the middle of the room, with an overturned chair beside it. In the corner was an army surplus cot, with no pillow beside it. Next to it were the remains of a duffel bag. It had been shredded, and the contents—clothes, MRIs, and a number of notebooks, the small blue kind you might use to write a final exam essay—were in a state of utter ruin.
Only one of the notebooks was in a legible state. Curious, Nino righted the chair and sat down at the desk, reading the document by the light of his cellphone's flashlight…
###
The Statement of Franklin Brewster
It was almost twenty years ago, in the heart of Vietnam, when I was just another Marine—Lance Corporal Franklin Brewster- eleven months into my tour. At that point, I had one medal and three charges of insubordination. Faith in God was a distant concept, lost in the maelstrom of war.
We were called The Walking Dead, and we were stationed at the base in Khe Sanh and we were truly alone. Westmoreland had promised support, but it was a cruel joke. The higher-ups wouldn't risk their precious units in a place that was nothing more than a meat grinder.
The shelling never stopped. Even when it seemed to pause, it was merely a lull before the next onslaught. We became experts at distinguishing the types of incoming fire by the sound alone. Snipers were everywhere, and a single lapse in vigilance meant death.
Each day and night, every patrol, I would pray for deliverance. Not to God—I had abandoned that notion—but to my guns, my only refuge in the madness. I carried spent shells like talismans, clinging to any semblance of hope amidst the chaos. Was it superstition or mysticism? Perhaps both.
Halfway through the siege, an unsettling figure appeared—the Old Man in black sunglasses. During one of the rare breaks in the shelling, a patrol discovered him at the camp's edge.
He wore standard Army camouflage but was devoid of any identification. His appearance was grotesque: unnaturally thin, with skin stretched tight over a skeletal frame. When he removed his sunglasses, his eyes were black voids, sunken deep into his face.
Accompanying him was a prisoner, bound and blindfolded, shackled with chains that looked medieval in their rust. The prisoner's skin was so dark, the darkest skin I'd ever seen. A strange symbol—a line, a cross, and a curve—was painted on their forehead. They muttered cryptically: "Owls and lizards and the big broken moon." The accent was foreign and unnerving.
All I wanted was to return to my post. While others hunkered down, I kept vigil through the barbed wire with my rifle and scope. I'd racked up so many kills that I'd lost count. They were offerings to the cold, merciless gods of war.
The CO, inexplicably gave the Old Man free rein. He got his own bunker and, disturbingly, had unlimited access to the PX. He cleared out their stock of first aid supplies, matches, candles—everything needed for some dark ritual. He never visited the mess hall, but two trays of food were delivered to his bunker morning and night.
One night, after patrol, I saw the Old Man at a T-junction, drinking from a puddle of water. His movements were deliberate, almost reptilian. I told my squad to go on without me and waited. When he stood, he fixed me with an unsettling gaze. "Brewster, isn't it?"
"Lance Corporal Brewster, sir."
"What are you doing here? Come to sell your soul at the crossroads?"
His words sent a shiver down my spine, though I couldn't pinpoint why. "I thought you might need an escort. The VC can get aggressive on foggy nights."
"An escort?" He chuckled, his voice dissolving into the dense fog. "Come along, little Corporal. Try to keep up."
I followed him through the fog, each step swallowed by the thick silence. The fog was suffocating, alive with rustling leaves, distant cries, and the occasional snap of a twig. It felt as though the fog itself was a living entity, wrapping around us, concealing something—or someone—just out of sight. Shadows twisted and turned, and the jungle's normal sounds became a cacophony of paranoia.
In fleeting moments when the fog thinned, I glimpsed twisted, spire-like structures rising above the treeline—structures that seemed out of place, alien in their grotesque design. My mind struggled to make sense of them, fearing that I was losing my grip on reality.
The Old Man moved through the terrain with unnatural ease while I struggled to keep up, each step a battle against unseen dangers. Then, suddenly, we were back at the base. The transition was jarring, like waking from a vivid nightmare. The Old Man turned to me, offering a mock salute. "I'm sorry our little excursion was for nothing. We're not as close to the border as I hoped."
"North Vietnam is 15 miles away," I said. "It would have taken hours."
"Not with you slowing me down," he said, turning and walking back to his bunker.
A week later, the fog thickened around the base, reducing visibility to mere feet. By nightfall, I was pinned down by one of the Quad 50s for hours, with nothing to do but listen to the roar of artillery. Boredom set in like a disease.
To pass the time, I turned my scope back on the camp, watching my fellow Marines darting for cover. Then I saw the Old Man storm out of his bunker, shouting into the darkness. The shelling got closer, but he seemed oblivious.
A shell hit a nearby gun emplacement. I knew the men there. I couldn't hope for their survival.
The Old Man finally walked off into the night, and I had to know what was happening. I sprinted from cover to cover, driven by an urgent need to uncover the truth.
Inside the bunker, the dim light of flickering candles created monstrous shadows on the walls. The air was heavy with the scent of melting wax. In the corner, the prisoner knelt, bound and blindfolded, candles balanced on their outstretched arms. The flames danced, casting eerie, shifting shadows.
The sounds of war were muffled, leaving only my ragged breaths and the oppressive silence. The prisoner turned towards me. "Nothing exists; everything is a dream." Their voice was strange, filled with an unsettling accent.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"God—human—world—the sun, the moon, the desert of stars—a dream, everything a dream."
"Do you want me to remove your blindfold?"
The prisoner flinched. "Nothing exists except for empty space—and you."
"You want to be captured?" I asked, struggling to understand. One of my worst fears was being taken by the VC.
The prisoner's voice was filled with a strange pity. "Nothing exists except for empty space—and you."
"What are you doing here? You're not a soldier."
A cold shiver crawled up my spine as the world around me twisted and distorted. I turned to find a black door set into the concrete wall, its presence unnatural. It drank in the light, casting deep shadows that warped the room’s very shape. The space seemed to bend towards it, as though drawn by some unseen force. From beyond the door, a metallic chiming seeped through—a sound that was disturbingly alive, almost sentient, as if it had a pulse of its own.
The prisoner's voice held a sinister joy. "You now understand that these things are impossible except in a dream. You realize that they are pure and childish madness!"
"What is that?" I demanded, my fear escalating.
The Old Man entered, holding a silver-plated revolver. "It's not what I asked for."
The prisoner's laughter filled the bunker, a grotesque cackle. "You now understand that these things are impossible except in a dream. You realize that they are pure and childish madness!"
Instinctively, I raised my M16 and aimed at the Old Man. He said, "This isn't for you, little Corporal."
The reality of the situation struck me with a chilling clarity. I saw the world for what it was—twisted, surreal, and terrifying.
The prisoner spoke once more. "I am already fading away—I am failing—I am passing on. Soon, you will be alone in the Mire of Nix, wandering through the Ruins of Never without a friend or companion forever."
The Old Man looked at me. "Who do you think he's talking about?" Without waiting for a response, he raised his revolver and shot the prisoner. Blood and wax splattered across my face. I fired a burst at the Old Man, but my shots went wide.
Before I could shoot again, the Old Man lowered his gun, placed a finger to his lips, and made a shushing sound.
A searing pain erupted in my chest, spreading through my limbs. My breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, struggling against an invisible barrier. My vision blurred, and the bunker spun as I collapsed to the floor.
Just before everything went black, I saw the Old Man approach the fallen prisoner, drawing a knife. He said, "Goodbye, and we will meet again."
I woke two days later in the Med. The Doc told me I'd had a heart attack and would be evacuated to Saigon, then possibly home. When I asked about the Old Man and his prisoner, I was told the CO would be in to talk.
When the CO arrived, he wasn't wearing his sidearm and looked pale—not frightened, but ashen, like someone who had seen too much. He told me they found me in the empty bunker, surrounded by candle wax and the bloody remains of eyes and a tongue. Then he asked if I had seen a door.
I told him I hadn't seen a thing.
A month after I arrived stateside, the Siege of Khe Sanh began. Half the men I'd served with died. Some days, I curse myself for not being there to die with them. Other times, I think about that black door, the Old Man, and the strange prisoner—and how somehow they saved my life.
In the decades since, I’ve immersed myself in strange tomes and forgotten cities, preparing for what lies ahead. I’ve earned a dozen degrees and become a professor of astronomy and history. Sometimes, I start to feel content, but then I remember that the Old Man and the black door are waiting for me in the not-so-distant future.
And I have to be ready.
###
… As Nino finished the document, a chill crept down his spine, and the world around him seemed to warp. He turned his chair and saw that a second door had appeared beside the one he had entered through. It was black, absorbing all light and transforming the room into a twisted version of itself. The door seemed to pull the space towards it, as if beckoning something to come through. The metallic chiming from behind it seeped into the room, as if the sound were a living entity with its own pulse and awareness.
The door began to open slowly, revealing slender fingers wrapped around its edge. They looked almost leprous, with a texture that was both repellent and otherworldly. Nino’s instinct for self-preservation kicked in, screaming at him to run, to escape and never come back.
And that is just what he did.
Item: The old brownstone in Kalamazoo was eventually cleaned up and put on the market. It had plenty of buyers but not a one of them ever stayed more than a year. Eventually was demolished and a parking lot was put in its place.
Item: My research reveals that Lance Corporal Franklin Brewster was honorably discharged from the United States Marine Corps in December 1967. He then spent nearly a decade studying at universities around the world before settling in Kalamazoo. There, he gained fame for his influential monograph, The Impact of Constellations on Early Religious Thought.
Sadly Professor Brewster died from a sudden onset of a category of amoebic meningoencephalitis that had been presumed extinct for over 11,000 years.
Item: Shortly after his long sought encounter with the supernatural Nino Savant sold his ghost hunting equipment, shaved off his beard and went into the family dry cleaning business.
