Before I write this, I say that I am under a crippling amount of strain, for my existence now is disdained upon by men who I do not know, and I do not get to see… I am afraid they may be anywhere or even in my same apartment. I do not know how much of this tale will be coherent, for the mere thought of what I stumbled upon makes me uneasy. That horrible face, GAH! After my work here is done and I recall what little memory is left, I shall take the rope I have knotted and use it to ornament myself within the closest; life now seems derailed and morbid.

My work as a private news source has often found me in the most uncanny of positions with information that the surface-level news can not, or should I say, will not acquire. Though now, now I see why. There had been monstrous rumors talked on by lifeless men in shabby, dingy pubs and the alleyways of filth and squalidness. I got my info from one of these pubs, but my recollection of it is fleeting—dam those eyes and that horrible glare.

He told me after letting him swallow and absorb three to four shorts of his choice of shots. He said of the disappearing street men who would, in the thick shadows of the early morning, be snatched up and forgotten, for the city did not bother with men of the streets. The denizens who lived there did not view them as equals, so their exilement had already detached them from the world. Who would notice if they had vanished? I say I remember going home that night, oh god, but recalling so heavily brings up that hideous grin it held, oh why must I revoke such an awful sight day in and out, awake or in dream?

I do remember, without sifting through my thoughts, the day I approached the house in question too, which was told to me that past midnight when the only thing to scurry about on the streets was rats and trash, terrible screams would resonate in the winds that pushed down from the mountain, which the house sat on. Oh, but I do remember those ghastly windows, stained glass they were, but I know that I thought I had seen a frightened phantasmic face imprinted upon it. It seemed to shift as if a vortex upon the nose had caught in a spiraling notion. I wish not to continue this story, for the thought of what I saw makes me quiver and tremble hysterically - but I must. The faintness, though, of my covert investigation is sparse in coherency though I do remember, oh god, I remember it all too well. Those poor humans were strung up like puppets. And their eyes and that ill-natural smile, I think it was thread weaving between their lips - My god, why. I cannot finish this, I shall give up my life now, for I cannot close my eyes without seeing that sadistic orgy and those flesh effigies made of humans.