July 5, 2023 – Nightfall
Dear Journal,
We're still parked at the old rest stop, but things have changed.
Naomi spotted movement in the treeline about thirty minutes ago—quick flashes of something darting between the branches. No distinct features, no footsteps, no growling. Just silence and shadow. She hasn't said it aloud, but we're all thinking the same thing:
The watchers are back.
Clara's fever climbed again. Her skin is cold and slick with sweat, and her lips are pale. Nora is holding her like she's trying to absorb the sickness herself. I can't stop hearing that rattle in the girl's lungs. Every breath sounds like it might be her last.
Marcus refueled the truck just in time. He's been triple-checking everything—hoses, belts, the oil line. I think he knows this vehicle might have to save our lives before the night's over.
But it's not the watchers or the truck that have me pacing.
It's the radio.
About an hour ago, Naomi and I stepped inside the station's office to scavenge. Among cracked vending machines and toppled file cabinets, we found a map. Old and water-damaged, but still readable. It confirms South Station is only about twenty-five miles west now—closer than we thought.
And that's when we heard it again.
Kkkzzshhh… come… Sssstation… shelter… safe… zzzt—
Then it changed.
Not the words. The tone.
A voice—no longer mechanical. Human. Or at least trying to be.
"J.K."
It said my name.
Naomi froze. I nearly dropped the radio.
"We see you."
She threw the unit against the wall, shattering the speaker, but we still heard it—
—from inside our heads.
I can't explain it. It wasn't like a voice in a dream. It was sharp. Present. A pressure behind my eyes, like someone twisting my thoughts with icy fingers.
Naomi hasn't spoken since.
We left the office immediately. Now she's just staring out at the trees, knife in hand. Watching. Waiting.
Marcus asked what happened. I told him the radio broke. He didn't push.
But I saw the look in his eyes—he doesn't believe me.
We've all seen too much not to suspect the worst.
Nora finally managed to get Clara to sleep. She sang something to her—a lullaby in Spanish. I didn't understand the words, but the melody was full of warmth. Hope. Pain. The kind of song you sing to someone you're afraid of losing.
The rest stop is quiet now. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound like footsteps.
I've been scanning the trees with my flashlight, but it doesn't reach far. Everything beyond twenty feet just melts into thick blackness.
I could swear I see something moving at the edges. A tall shape. Thin. Tilting its head.
Just like the thing on the tape.
I closed the door. Locked it. Bolted it. As if that ever stopped anything.
I'm not going to lie—I'm scared.
Not just for Clara. Or for our group.
But for what's waiting at South Station.
The way that voice said my name… I don't think it's a beacon anymore.
I think it's a lure.
And we're the catch.
We leave before sunrise.
If we can.
Yours beneath the static,
J.K.