/found/ - Unexplained Found Items

I was not supposed to see this Anonymous ██/██/██(██) 02:31:18 No.38841029

File: scan_001.jpg (3.8 MB, 1540×990)

found this in my backseat this morning. car was locked. i don't know anyone named marcus burden. there's a phone inside too.

scanning as i go.

Anonymous ██/██/██(██) 02:34:05 No.38841033

Has anyone else noticed the handwriting changes slightly between entries. like two different people wrote in the same book.

Anonymous (OP) ██/██/██(██) 02:38:12 No.38841039

File: scan_002.jpg (4.1 MB, 1540×990)

pages 4–6 were torn out. you can see where. some ink on the right page has almost completely faded.

Anonymous ██/██/██(██) 02:40:55 No.38841044

Every account from that specific part of el salvador that I've come across involves a road. always a road, always at night. always someone who survives something they shouldn't.

Anonymous (OP) ██/██/██(██) 02:43:22 No.38841049

File: 03.11_2247.m4a (1.2 MB) — quality corrupted

▶

03.11_2247.m4a 00:38 · stopped

phone was inside the journal. cracked screen. no sim. battery at 34%. one file on it, nothing else. not even a wallpaper.

use headphones.

Anonymous ██/██/██(██) 02:46:02 No.38841059

>listened to audio

>it's quiet static at first

>then something underneath

>i turned it up

>mfw

Anonymous ██/██/██(██) 02:48:31 No.38841063

Something about the description of the hands. that detail is not in any version of the folklore I know. wherever it came from it wasn't internet research.

Anonymous (OP) ██/██/██(██) 03:02:44 No.38841082

File: scan_003.jpg (3.9 MB, 1540×990)

the red marks in the margins were already there. right page has a list. no idea what it is.

Anonymous ██/██/██(██) 03:06:18 No.38841088

Has OP said which road specifically. there are three roads out of that area at night. one of them you don't take. everyone from there knows which one.

Anonymous ██/██/██(██) 03:09:02 No.38841092

Either this is the most convincingly crafted thing I've seen on this board or something is very wrong. I've been reading it for 30 minutes and I can't find a seam.

I know what the figure is. I'm not going to name it in this thread. If you're from that region you know. If you don't know, look at the margin of the second page very carefully.

actually don't. don't name it. don't look it up tonight.

Anonymous (OP) ██/██/██(██) 03:15:08 No.38841109

File: scan_004.jpg (2.9 MB, 1540×990)

that's all of it.

i had an accident on a road outside izalco last year. should not have walked away from it.

i'm going to sit outside.

Anonymous ██/██/██(██) 03:17:44 No.38841114

Replying to ask OP to confirm they're still here. OP?

Anonymous ██/██/██(██) 04:04:03 No.38841196

Everyone has noticed OP hasn't posted since No.38841109. account was created at 02:29. one minute before the thread. this is their only post history.

this thread has been past auto-archive threshold for 50 minutes.

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why
am i
writing
this

9 — dont know the date. after the road i think.

ok so i dont know who is going to read this. maybe nobody. thats fine. i just need to write it down because if i dont i think something is going to happen to me. i dont mean like hurt myself i mean my head is i keep forgetting things. small things. like what i had for breakfast or where i put my keys. its been getting worse.

my name is Marcus Burden. i grew up in Izal a small place. i had a job, a car, a route home i drove every night. it made a noise when i turned left. i kept meaning to get it checked

i knew the stories about that road. everyone does. you grow up here you hear them. i thought they were just — you know. stories. the kind old people tell to keep kids inside at night.

i did not believe them.

i should have

if someone finds this please read all of it. i know how it sounds. i knew how it sounded while it was happening and it didnt stop.

M.B. · p.48

read
this
again

— continued

The road at night is a different animal. You know this if you have ever driven it. Past a certain point the dark starts to feel like a wall — solid, present — and the only reason you keep driving is because you have to believe the dark is moving back as you approach.

I had the radio on. Something forgettable. And then the signal cut. Not static — silence. A clean, flat silence that had weight.

That is when I saw the figure at the edge of the road.

Tall. Completely still. Something in me — far older than reason, something kept in the blood — told me to slow down.

It was standing exactly where the headlights ended.

And above the shoulders — where a should have been —

t h e r e w a s n o t h i n g .

In the mirror I watched it turn — without moving its feet, without any movement of its legs — just the top half rotating to face the back of my car. Watching me leave with something that wasn't eyes.

??? —
the old
stories

he was already watching before i saw him

note
—→

3 — I think this is the next day. Hard to tell.

My hand moved before I told it to. I pressed record. Held the phone to the window. Drove past it slowly. Watched the mirror until it disappeared into the dark behind me.

I played the recording back that night. There is something underneath the engine noise. Underneath my own breathing. I played it to three people. Two said nothing unusual. The third listened to fifteen seconds, removed his headphones very carefully, stood up, left, hasn't replied since.

[ entries 4–6 — pages torn. margin of p.6: ]

"— I understand now why the stories don't have endings. The people who could tell you are not in a position to tell anyone anything."

There were scratches on the east wall. Old. Dust had settled into them. I copied them here as exactly as I could. Some had worn past reading.

-- .- .-. -.- ..- ... -.- -. . .-- ... --- -- . - .... .. -. --.

I have been staring at them. Two days I think.

p.52

7 — the sky is the same color again. still.

i dont know when it happened. theres no moment i can point to. one day i was on the road and then i was just. here. this place. i think i kept driving home and somewhere on that road home i stopped being on that road.

the sky here is always the same. that yellow-gray color before a storm. never changes. no sun coming up, no sun going down. just that color. all the time.

theres someone else here. not going to write their name. they were here before me and they know things i dont. they told me a few things and i wrote them down word for word:

cant leave unless he decides.
he sees everything. all of it.
the hands arent him — just how he gets through.

they told me something else too. writing it small. i think he reads what i write. i dont know how but i think he does.

found a book on the floor. no cover. inside front page had a stamp or brand i dont recognise —
WKH FKRVHQ

the
hands

9 — Stopped counting.

He has no face. I know this with certainty — not because I have seen him directly, I have not — but because the other person here has described it the same way every single time.

He is not cruel the way people are cruel. No pleasure in it. No malice you can aim at. He finds something in a person he values — something they may not know is there — takes it. Keeps it.

Like a collection.

The hands. I want to be precise. They are real. Large. The joints bend in directions joints don't bend. The fingers are too long in some places, too short in others — as though someone who had only read a description of hands attempted to build a pair from memory.

He reaches through — a seam, a tear in the air — and then you are simply here. No transition. Just before, and after.

I've been trying to describe this place. I keep writing lists. This one I am keeping:

Heavy is what this place makes you.
Every room looks the same after a while.
I have started marking the walls to tell them apart.
Somehow that makes it worse — he notices the marks.
He always sees. Everything here.
Even the walls feel like they report to him.
Running was not possible. I tried.
Every door I found was the same door.

wall
writing
not mine

12 — someone was here before me

found this nailed to another wall. different handwriting. smaller letters, pressed really hard. the other person here says they didnt write it. so i dont know who did.

He did not come through a door.
Everything here belongs to him. All of it.
I don't know how long I have been here.
Some days I forget my own name.
He knows it though. He knows everything.
Even that I am writing this right now.
Running from this is not an option.
Every exit leads back to the same room.

theres more of this writing on other walls. other corridors. i havent figured out all of it yet.

they dont end up here by accident. theres a list. if youre reading this you might already be on it

— last one. no idea what day.

found a laptop in one of the rooms. it had one bar of a network i dont recognize. ive been trying to get a connection for what feels like a really long time. this might not even send. if it does i dont know where itll end up.

i dont know if he can see the internet. i hope he cant. i dont think he knows what it is. i hope

he doesnt take people by accident. everyone i know of here survived something that shouldnt have gone the way it did. a crash. a fall. something on a road. something with no explanation. the explanation is him. he picks people. theres a pattern and i cant figure out all of it but there is one.

if youve walked away from something you shouldnt have walked away from — i dont know. look around. pay attention. you might already know about this place and not know you know.

— marcus
the domain · dont know the date
please reply if u can

account last active — day of first post — never replied to thread

people before him kept journals too. he keeps all of them.

this isnt the first one found in a car on that road.

wont be the last either.

you found this because he let you find it.

— not him

this was blank when i found the journal — OP

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