Despite the stereotypical depiction of the computer nerd as some kind of perpetually lonely super virgin, Jay was actually happily married to a fairly attractive girl named Amy. Then I write this log. I sent the video to my friend Jay who specialized in extracting useable data from corrupted files along with an email explaining everything. There is a partially open closet to the right of the frame and a closed door to the left. I spent nights sitting there, listening to her weird-ass music mostly stuff like the Cure and Four Non-Blondes. There is a man sitting in the darkness behind her. Think I have a new regular. The following is a transcript of the first page of the earliest document.
I started skimming through the earliest log and it quickly became obvious that Enid was no air-traffic controller. It was the same masked man as before. I unlocked the phone to find two new messages and a bunch of missed calls from my girlfriend and was immediately knocked out of my fixated stupor by an overwhelming sense of guilt. Just another troubled girl living alone, no man to support her, paying the bills through devious sex acts and hallucinating masked stalkers. There is a man sitting in the darkness behind her. The seven folders were labeled, from top to bottom: It was like the moment those files where extracted, the computer just keeled over and died. She never seemed like the flighty type. He agreed to come over and check to see if he could salvage the hard-drive. I tried two more times but he never answered. I start to but then stop when I see the video-feed. I tell them about my job and the man in the black mask. I had already tested the program and followed the steps exactly. Then I write this log. I spent nights sitting there, listening to her weird-ass music mostly stuff like the Cure and Four Non-Blondes. Think I have a new regular. The picture quality was poor, like it was taken with a web cam, and the longer I stared at it the harder it was to tell if what I was looking at was even a mask. I get my porn the old fashioned way: Call me when you can, sweetie. I write this log and forward it to Donna along with the one from last Wednesday. I lay a plastic sheet down on the floor in front of the camera and do so. I hear the woman mutter something and then breaking glass and then screaming and then the session is ended. There is a partially open closet to the right of the frame and a closed door to the left. The computer unlocked to reveal a desktop with a painting of the DC villain Harley Quinn as its background. It sounds like he is sobbing. Lovecraft if he had been really into butt-stuff. Then I quit for the day.
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