I woke up across from an older, Italian man.

“Alright, let’s talk about South Rockspring a bit” I said, as I was being directed to by an unseen hand. 

“Why do you want to talk about it?” 

“Weren’t you a founder?”

“Yeah, I wanted to get away from the memories, and you should, too”

I wake up, again, in a cold sweat. Shit, another nightmare. 

I jumped the gun in my last entry, and should probably find a better way to get into Argentis and absolutely confirm when Argentis opened that night. A lot has changed since I did that last entry a couple months back and had that nightmare. It’s winter, for one, and doing outdoor walking tours is off of the table. That being off the table means lease renewal never happened, and to keep it brief, I live in South Rockspring now, in a house whose owner is functionally never around. I’ve been able to make ends meet by editing some short form content for other local creators, but it pays the bills at a very basic level unfortunately. The cassette still lingers in the back of my mind. Who are the 10 that are unaccounted for in the interview?

One day, as I was commuting to a walking tour site in Rockspring, I passed by the Argentis warehouse and a fence was up, along with a single security guard standing outside like a sentry. This set off a light in my head If there is a guard outside and fencing, someone must own the building I thought to myself. I went to the Illinois Secretary of State website, doing a property search by address to see if anything would pull up. Sure enough, the building was owned by a property Management Group called Landen Capital. Pulling up the site yielded several project pages, including one for Argenti’s address called Speakeasy. I snorted. Someone on the project knows the history of the building. The concept looked interesting enough, it seemed like the renderings would be true to what a 1920’s speakeasy was, but as someone that has lived in the city and seen several renovations, how true it would be to the theme was TBD until opening day. Scrolling down the page, I found a name. Jerry Landen – Principal, along with a link next to it to send him an email.

Naturally, I reached out 

To: Jerry.Landen@landencapital.com

From: cole.springer81@gmail.com

Subject: Speakeasy – Collaboration ideas?

Date: December 15th, 2024

Hello Mr. Landen,

I hope you are well. My name is Cole, and I am a tour guide that does historic tours of old buildings. I would love to help promote Speakeasy by doing a tour with the press and a tour of the old Mayberry building, but did see that there is a fence around it. I am curious if I can get access to the property to do a scouting tour. I work an irregular schedule, so getting access between 8:00-10:00 PM (usually when I get off) would be ideal. Let me know if that would work for you. 

Sincerely,

Cole Springer

Spring Into Action History Tours

Shot in the dark in the middle of December, so let’s see if it hits anything. In the meantime, the Mayor is about to announce Vision 2030, a plan to renovate and pedestrianize 18th street. I saw the push notification on my phone, tried to read the article, but passed out before I could get a paragraph in.

I woke up in a cold sweat, outside of my bed and lying in the middle of an empty, dark warehouse. As I start to wake, I turn on my phone flashlight and start to make out some features Argenti’s I think to myself, recalling the tiktok videos and bloodybones now infamous 2017 video. A small wall clock suddenly comes into view on one of the old beams, with the time reading 8:37. That’s about half past eight I thought to myself. More objects come into view as sound begins to fill my ears. A bar, filled with bootleg liquor to my left. To the right, a stage with jazz instruments playing early 1920’s standards. The hoots and hollers of patrons. This place is hot, a voice echoes from the bar. 

Damn Sammy is back again

I think he’s starting to figure out another, deeper, more gruff voice chuckles as it drifts toward the stage. 

After looking around to find the source of the voices, a larger prize Right under the beam with the clock is an ACME police whistle. As if possessed, I pick up the whistle, put it between my lips, and blow. 

Suddenly, the space goes quiet and completely dark again. I then hear the sound of bullets and the words that sonnabitch is…

I woke up in a cold sweat. Just a dream I tell myself. I swear

Another two months pass. The winter is the typical Rockspring winter, brutal with patches of hope. Tour income helps me afford the house, but I guess the value of historic research is about 170 square feet in 2026 based on what I am paying for the opportunity to rent a room. One day, as I’m doing research on a cryptid horror enthusiasts are calling the Rockspring Raptor, I get an email back from Jerry Landen.

To: cole.springer81@gmail.com

From: Jerry.Landen@landencapital.com 

CC: Frank.Stump@yahoo.com 

Subject: Speakeasy – Collaboration ideas?

February 6th, 2025

Cole,

Thank you for your patience in my response. We have been approved for the rezone to build Speakeasy, and would love to consider a tour partnership in the next couple of weeks to begin the promotion process for a late April opening. The one caveat, however, is we would need to have you coordinate with Frank (CC’d) above, our swing shift security guard. Frank, what times work best for you?

I was elated. This could be what was needed to start building a nest egg to at least have a condo in South Rockspring if I played my cards right. I went back and forth with Frank, settling on meeting him on Thursday February 26th at 7:00 PM.

As I walked through the month old construction on 18th Street, mostly buried under a coat of frost, I had a sense of dread over me. I had snagged an ACME whistle from a collector in the UK, a history nerd that wanted Argenti’s story to be told, and headed towards what looked like a door in the fence. On the other side, waiting in a black security hoodie, was Frank. 

‘You looking to get in?’ Frank said, sounding slightly exasperated. 

“Yup, its Cole, we have been coordinating over email”

‘Okay’, Frank responded, dismissively. 

Frank opened the fence door. 

‘Get inside, it’s chilly out there’

Frank opened a makeshift door created by the construction team and I followed him in. ‘What floor?’ he asked.

‘3rd’ I said. Doing additional research into Argenti’s gave me the impression that this was the correct floor. I looked down at my watch. 7:07 by the time we got to the floor. When we exited the construction elevator, the air began to grow thick. This is the place I thought to myself. It had a similar eerie feeling to the warehouse of my dream, but was a lot more defined. It didn’t look exactly like the dream scene, but there were elements. The bar on the left was long gone, with about ½ of the bandstand left on the right. One consistency did exist between the dream and my reality: the beam, which held an old clock, was there in the middle. Instead of an old school analog clock, a digital clock was there, saying 1909.

I had time to kill. For me, the big unresolved elements were the additional 10 people who died and who the shooter ultimately was. I struck up a conversation with the security guard, who had worked in the building for the 2 month period since the fence went up. 

“Have you ever seen anything.. weird on this floor?”

“Outside of the occasional rat, not really,” Frank opined. “I’m a hired gun, this is just one of my jobsites. Landen seems to pay well from everything that I have heard.”

I checked my watch partially through Frank’s patrol. 748 PM. I figured I would be blunt, as Frank seemed to require direct communication. 

“Have you heard about the Whistle Massacre?”

“Yeah, every kid in Rockspring has, dude.”  Frank dismissively responded. “You know the song, right?” Admittedly, I did not know it. “Can you sing it?

“Ok,” Frank sighed “One becomes Two and Two becomes Three” Frank started to sing in a monotone sing-songy voice “The whistling voice will never get me!” This song started to conjure up a memory “Three becomes four and four becomes five, I don’t know if I’ll get out alive!” It was a playground song. I never went to school in Rockspring, but I had heard some kids sing it outside of the library before they set off those bottle rockets. “Five Becomes Six, and Six becomes Seven, it looks like that soon I’m going to heaven!” This was some pure Ring around the Rosie Shit. “Before I could leave, something happened to me, and that was the date that Seven became Eight.” The singsongy nature got to me. I checked my watch again. 755 PM, let’s get back to the third floor. I ask Frank if he’s done with his patrol “give it 10 minutes” he hurriedly mumbled. He ran into a large HVAC room, I waited for 10 minutes, and, sure enough, he came back out at 8:07. “Alright,” Frank said, “Let’s get back to 3.”

The clock read 2011 by the time that we got back up to the floor. Still a little bit of time to kill before the whistle came out. “Have you ever hear of anyone trying to do the Whistle Challenge?” I asked. Frank’s entire demeanor changed after this, as if those words were magic. “Dozens of people have tried to get in during the last couple months” Frank observed “Some got into the building before we completely took over. Some figured out the ‘correct’ floor, but most just tried to whistle on the ground floor, which may have caused nothing to happen. It is interesting though, a few accounts that people had were dormant shortly after they completed the challenge. Perhaps they discovered the truth, whatever that means, and couldn’t handle it. Perhaps something else happened. I would try to reach out to those dormant accounts, but it sounds like they’re gone now. I did write them down one night to kill time between patrols if you have any interest. It sounds like we’re about to get a front row seat to this show.”

“So you think about this a lot.”

“Yeah, when you’re stuck in an abandoned building, I guess the algorithm sends you content around the building,” he admitted. “I don’t know much about the building outside of the challenge and the massacre, but I’m not completely blind”. 

2027 The clock read above. Time to explain before I completed the ritual.

“Ok, so I am going to blow this whistle at about 2038, don’t be alarmed by it. I will also begin recording right after. Please try and stay still unless there’s absolutely something that you need to address on another floor”

“Copy,” Frank said.

We still had 10 minutes to kill. I was quiet for most of it, listening to Changes by David Bowie, both excited and terrified to see how the building reacted. I set up my phone with a microphone. Then, 2037 came. I pulled out the whistle, which I tested at home before I drove over, and gave it a blow. 

There was a larger amount of reverb than expected. My phone was on a tripod, scanning the room at regular intervals. Nothing seemed to happen. No gunshots, no screams, not even Jazz music. I then looked over at Frank again, and what he said would change everything. 

“It had been 72 years, since 7 became 8” he said, again using that singsongy voice, but with a manic energy. As he started speaking, I got my phone off the tripod, pointing it directly at Frank. 

“But for vengeful vixens, it’s never too late”. 

“8 became 9, and 9 became 10. The killings have started to happen again”. 

He started slowly walking towards me. 

“10 became 11, and 11 became 12, why did they go, where death has dwelled?” 

I stepped back, he slowly started to reach for his holster. 

“12 became 13, and 13 became fourteen, they didn’t realize the spirits were mean.” 

He pulled the gun out. I had to get out ASAP. I stopped recording and ran for the elevator. 

“14  became 15 and 15 became 16!” He loaded the pistol and took off to safety. I was in the elevator pressing the buttons hurriedly. The cage elevator door closed, slowly starting to go down 

“16 became 17 and 17 became…!” 

Those were the last words I heard before I ended up on the ground floor. I hurried to the fence, hearing footsteps coming slowly down the stairs. I unlocked the fence door, and booked it to my car. I drove to South Rockspring, not looking back at 18th Street, hoping not to see a car tailing me. 

The first thought I had was to check the police report again from the YouTube video. While it still said 18 deaths and 0338, I did notice something in the upper right hand corner that made my heart sink. 

Updated February 26th, 2025. 

Have you ever been to a city where, when you cross the street into a new block, the overall demeanor of the area feels different? For me, that is 18th Street in Rockspring, Illinois

I am a local historian that has studied Rockspring and surrounding areas for the past 5 years. I have given tours in the past to make ends meet financially, but the shift has been to partner with restaurants, bars, and small businesses to promote their business in exchange for food deals and a few dollars to get by. It’s been a bit of a shock. I thought my research would be enough, but now I have to approach places I would never go to otherwise and shake down for cash, like some sort of influencer. At least I have a lifetime sauce pass at Greg’s Buffalo Wings

One component of this locally that has been popular is the “whistle challenge”. We are a fairly mid-sized city in the US that shuts down after a certain hour: 2:00 AM. The remaining 24 hour diners that would fill the 2:00-6:00 AM slot were priced out of Rockspring by the mid 2010’s, with COVID being the death knell for the last diner we had, Damien’s Diner. With that being the case, the last destination often ends up being 18th Street.

The videos are mostly TikToks and reels of some drunk twenty-somethings whistling in an abandoned warehouse before they inevitably get scared and stop recording.The origin of the challenge is said to have originated from a video uploaded to YouTube back in 2017, where true-crime creator bloody-bone118 told the story of the Whistle Massacre. Below is their interpretation, with some of my notes:

This massacre occurred in 1922, during the height of the Jazz Age. 18th Street at the time was a bustling destination in a black neighborhood, one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the city. In the Era of Prohibition, it is where you would go to find a speakeasy. Bloody-bone118’s video highlighted this, using jazz pieces (some of which came after 1922) juxtaposed against historical images from the club to make their point. 

The climax of the video talks about how, around closing time, a distinct whistle was heard from inside one of the most notorious speakeasies, Argenti’s, and the patrons of the club were mowed down in the gunfire of an early tommy gun. The gunfire effect used at this point definitely had more in common with a more modern submachine gun, but I won’t hold it too much against the user. Can’t find many tommy guns in the modern era to recreate the sound perfectly. The coda is the story of 18th Street afterwards, with the systemic defunding of the neighborhood in the 50’s and 60’s and urban renewal of the 70’s causing 18th street to be a shell of itself for decades, adding the sliver of hope that development had begun along the street again. Like most of YouTube, the video ended with a like and subscribe

The key part of the video that has inspired a slew of creators is the exact time that the whistle occurred. Bloody-Bone’s video said that the time was around 0338, citing a police report in the footnotes, and most creators try and whistle around that time. Something felt off about the time that the shooting was reported to happen. Argenti’s usually closed off by about 0230, and the casualty numbers (18 people) were much greater than the number of staff that would still be cleaning up by the time the speakeasy shut down for the night. When I clicked the footnote, I was directed to a police report. Shit I thought to myself,  cops aren’t going to give their records up that easily, they may not even have files from 1922. There was one other lead that I thought to interrogate.

Going back to the video, I got to the part immediately after the shooting ‘the lone survivor was Sammy Gambino, a known mobster who was an outcast from the Gambino crime family, he would go on to have one son in 1928, Tullio. 

Tullio, I thought to myself. If he is alive, he is 95 years old, and may have never heard about the massacre. It was worth a try to find information. 

A search online quickly found that Tullio had died in 2006, but another interesting lead came upon initial research: Tullio had completed a recorded interview from 1994 for a local oral history of 18th street. The catch? It hadn’t been digitized, but the recorded interview apparently was available as a cassette at Rockspring Libraries South Branch. I hopped in my car, hearing the sound of sirens as I put my keys into the ignition. 

The South Branch was an unassuming building that could have been a high school gymnasium if I hadn’t pulled into the parking lot since I started doing professional tours. I found a spot close to the front of the lot, and stepped through the revolving door. 

The space itself is small: an adult fiction and nonfiction section to the right, a smaller kids section to the left, and a bank of about 8 computers immediately behind the librarians. Not the elaborate libraries that get depicted when people think of academic research. I went up to the front desk, a twenty-something with a water bottle that had a ‘D.A.R.E.’ sticker on it, and began my spiel

“Hey, do you happen to have the cassette recording from Tullio Gambino about 18th Street in stock?” I began

“Yeahhhh” the young man said, practically sighing, clutching his bottle “Lemme see if I can dig it out for you”.

He left the desk for a few minutes. I briefly glanced at the book he was reading, Serpico, and sat down on the couch by the front door. About ten minutes later, he came back with a small, plastic bin.

“It appears that just the cassette is available. Follow the instructions inside, and be sure not to scratch it”. He checked it out hastily, giving the cassette to me.

I walked out, holding the bin carefully and packing it into the trunk of my car. Just then, I heard a bang immediately to my left. When I looked, it was just teens firing off bottle rockets. I sighed, and headed back to the apartment. 

Luckily, one of my partnerships was with a refurbishment business that had sold me a 1995 cassette player. I put the cassette inside, reading the instructions before I recorded it. 

1. DO NOT SCRATCH
2. PLEASE BE KIND, REWIND
3. PLEASE USE A WORKING CASETTE PLAYER
4. IF YOU NOTICE ANY AUDIO ISSUES, PLEASE 
5. OUT OF RESPECT FOR THE INTERVIEWEE, PLEASE DO NOT RECORD THIS FOR ANY USE. TRANSCRIPTION IS ALLOWED

05/01/1994

The last bit was baffling to me. Perhaps this was a relic of an earlier time. Regardless, I decided that it wouldn’t hurt too much to record from my phone and have transcription, so I turned on the cassette player and hit play, and left my phone to record the cassette as I made dinner.

Once dinner was made and eaten, I came back to the room with the tape. It appeared to be skipping on the phrase ‘and he’s’, so I quickly removed it from the player and grabbed my phone. 

Using the transcript search function, I found the word Argentis was first mentioned, and started to hit the play button about five seconds before. 

Interviewer: So we talked about Ray’s Barbershop, but one building that never was occupied during your life seems to loom large in it, Argentis…

Tullio: Yeah, that was my dad’s problem (chuckles lightly)

Interviewer: Did he ever tell you about it?

Tullio: Off and on, was a nice place to run some rum I guess.

Interviewer: But what about the Whistle….

Tullio: Oh God

Interviewer: Do you not want to talk about it?

Tullio: You ever heard of omerta? 

I paused the recording once Tullio said that. Hope this isn’t a dud I wished for myself. I pressed play, listening intently.

Interviewer: Do you feel comfortable talking about what he told you, if anything, about the Whistle Massacre?

Tullio: Sure… they’re all six feet down and breathing manure anyway. My old man Sam always told me bits and pieces about it over the years. The stories varied, depending how he felt. Some nights, he made the hero and courageously tried to save the patrons before ducking. Some nights, he’s the coward, saving his own hide before the shots go off. The basic premise of the story is the same. It was half past open, and he was a Gin or more in, flirting with a lady that would be swiss cheese soon. He heard an ACME of all goddamn things and got a sense about him, always says a halfsecond before everyone else, ducks out of the space, and gets his ass off the street as quickly as he got into Argentis.

Interviewer: Did he know who the man was?

Tullio: Nope, a total ghost. You’ve read the papers. 8 dead.  Massacre of Rockspring. Whistle Massacre. I’ve heard from some fellow south-siders young kids are trying to whistle in the abandoned space? Macabre shit. That’s All

Interview: Alright, let’s move on and talk about South Rockspring a bit….

I paused there, my heart jumping a beat and breath feeling thin. Three basic facts of the widely accepted story had been completely disproven. The streamers trying to resurrect a ghost in the factory space were doing it all wrong. It wasn’t a simple audible whistle, it was a police whistle. And the time would have been sometime around open, or whatever “half past” meant, not 3:00 in the morning. The last bit, the death discrepancy, was puzzling to me. 10 people off on the police report? Who were the 10 people that the paper didn’t report? By this point, I was ready to do a preliminary investigation of 18th street. I looked at my clock, however, and it was 11:07 PM at night. I haven’t slept well, I mumbled to myself. I closed my curtains, sealed myself off to the world, and crashed in my bed, an eerie feeling plaguing me as I closed my eyes.

“Help. Me”

The three knocks were accompanied by the faintest voice. Looking out the peephole, I saw the figure, a lanky, thinly looking man with a ragged pair of jeans on, a long black sweater with gloves, and a black ski mask that obstructed his face. I was about to let him in when when the voice of Grandma shocked me from behind.

“DONT OPEN THE DOOR!”

I stopped, facing her while I took my hand off the doorknob.

“You think its a melt, don’t you?”

As I said these words the voice repeated its plea, slightly louder now.

“Help. Me”

“Don’t let him trick you” Grandma demanded. “These creatures want you to feel pitiful as they rob you blind.”

I went back to the door, trying to figure out how to prove to Grandma this thing wasn’t a Melt.

Heading back towards the door, I formulated my line of questioning.

“What is your name?”

A quick hesitation, and then a response

“Harold”

Looking back to Grandma yielded the predicted response.

“That means nothing!

Back to the questions

“Why are you outside?”

In fragments, he said “Car. Broke. Down. Need. Warm”

I peered through the window next to the door and saw nothing. Snow was coming down in sheets, and our house was the only one for miles, so it was plausible he walked from his vehicle.

Grandma would believe none of it, staring at me intently with her arms crossed.

The man knocked on the door again, three times, more heavily than the first time.

“HELP. ME” he yelled louder

I looked to my grandmother as she mouthed one word to me. Don’t.

“LET ME IN” the man screamed.

Three more knocks, feeling like they were shaking the foundation of the building.

“LEAVE US ALONE” Grandma yelled at the voice.

“HELP ME”

Silence for a second. I peered out the keyhole again. The figure stood like a sentinel, with only its breath signifying that it was alive.

I stood at a crossroads. My options before me were both grim: on the one hand, I could keep the door closed, satisfying my grandmother and dooming the person outside. On the other, I could let him in, likely putting my grandmother into hysterics and possibly endangering ourselves to a complete stranger.

Considering what I had to do, I stepped towards the door, looked out the keyhole, and began to turn the doorknob.

To Be Continued.

In Deepest Winter/When Worst Cold Is Felt/Beware the Three Knocks/Beware Of The Melts

-Folk Rhyme, Origin Unknown

Seven Degrees. A measurement that I had previously associated with being connected to someone. In my new home in Colorado, it served as a reminder that outside was an inhospitable wasteland.

Inside wasn’t much more friendly. The primary thing regulating the temperature in the old home was a fireplace, one I had to manage myself because my aging grandmother could not by herself. The hostility inside extended to her as well.

You see, my grandma was near the end of her life, and a nursing home to her felt like a death sentence. As the youngest sibling with no obligations, no job prospects back home in Florida, and, according to judgmental relatives, no hope, I was the natural caretaker for her. Her growing dementia made it hard: she saw things, could hardly remember who I was, and acted hostile to anyone beyond me that came through the door.

As I entered the home that night, she was sitting in her chair, an ancient piece that wouldn’t be out of place in a Victorian novel. “Who are you!” She shouted, as her eyes turned to daggers shot right at my head. After taking off my layers, she settled down, realizing I was friend. Coming from the store, I started to cook the one meal she consistently ate: Oatmeal with banana, cinnamon, and brown sugar.

I put the bowl in front of her, and she started to eat, watching the door the entire time. The focus on the door was so intense at times that her focus on eating disappeared, as oatmeal missed her mouth and hit the floor. Wondering, I asked “Grandma, Why are you watching the door so intently?

“I’m waiting for a melt to show up.”

“What is a melt?” I inquired, not knowing the Pandora’s Box I had open.

Without relaying the conversation in full due to the ramblings beyond the scope of the question, a melt was the spirit of a person that died in the midst of winter.

“Melts, my boy, will wait until the coldest hour to begin their rituals”.

The ritual, she elaborated on, was simple: they would knock on the door of a house three times, ask to be let in, and proceed to murder everyone in the home.

“What do they look like?” I wondered aloud to her.

“A melt will be covered head to toe when they come to your door. Underneath the clothes, ice.”

Excitedly expanding on the legend, Grandma warned that the only way to kill a melt was to not let it in.

“Surviving a melt simply requires you to not gives into their lies. Keep the door closed, and you will see a puddle on your doorstep in the morning, a sign that the melt has not succeeded”.

Playing along with Grandma’s delusion, I started to ask how a melt becomes a melt, still curious as to what they got out of their home invasions. As her eyelids starting to droop, I realized that my questions would go unanswered. Finding a heavy blanket in the armoire next to the grandfather clock, I tucked her into her seat, adding one more log to the fireplace before heading to my room.

The inside of this house, much like the living room, felt like an exhibition more so than a living space. At night when grandma was asleep, it felt intimidating, with the walnut table and the mahogany chairs of the adjacent dining room whispering their secrets in the creaks that they made when used. The only hint at modernity in the home was the kitchen attached to the dining room, with a fridge and a cupboard replete with the staples of a poor household: Beans, Rice, Bulk Oatmeal, and spices.

I was cleaning the bowl of oatmeal out, putting it on the dry rack. Making myself a cup of tea, I sat at the dining room table, scrolling through my phone to check the news, check my email, and apply for the odd job or two. All of a sudden, I heard a knock at the door.

And then another one

And then a third.

To Be Continued

This Piece Was Originally Published in Mile High Horrors Bimonthly Publication “What Evil Lurks”

Winter Solstice. The best shift for an overnight guard. Despite this, I’m dreading the 12 hours that I will be on this shift due to swing shift calling out sick. 12 hours means three patrols of the building, twelve hourly logs, and watching a whole lot of nothing due to the winter storm raging outside the old nature museum.

Hour 1: Interior Temperature 68 Degrees, 10% humidity at 1954.

I settled down for a large cup of coffee. It is a solitary job being in a museum at night. As someone who has been a night guard for 3 years, the initial shocks of the noises that the building makes—the creaks of the architecture and the billowing steam of the mechanical systems—have become ambient noise. The displays of the sabre-tooths and predator animals no longer shock me on patrols. Humanity is the ultimate predator in my eyes.

Hour 2: Interior Temperature 69 degrees, 8% humidity at 2057. Contract snow service called.

These logs are nonsense. Created mostly for giving nights busywork and partially due to a night guard falling asleep a couple weeks ago. The contract snow removal service we have will be here around 5 AM, ready to clear the path for visitors that will visit the next day. Icicle removal is also their forte, as many will build up around the entrances.

Hours 3/4: Interior Temperature 67-68 degrees, 8-10% humidity at 2154 and 2258. First Patrol Complete.

At least patrols make my job easier by breaking up the night a little bit and getting me out of the dispatch center. The patrols usually last about an hour and a half, coming down to a science of 18 minutes per floor in this five-floor building.

Hour 5: Interior Temperature 65 degrees, 12% humidity at 2301. 

This is when I would usually start my shift. My supervisor called me in regards to the higher humidity, said to monitor it and alert if it goes above 15%.

Hour 6: Interior Temperature 67 Degrees, 10% humidity at 0011.

Solstice is over, officially. Halfway through the shift as the coffee is replaced by water. My microwave burrito and frito chips are my solace. Time for another patrol.

Hour 7/8: Interior Temperature 64/66 Degrees, 7% humidity at 0104

and 0210. Second Patrol Complete.

Time to babysit. The museum is bordered by bars, breweries, and concert halls, and drunks often use our campus as a place to catch a rideshare, particularly on a blizzard night like tonight. 

Hour 9: Interior Temperature 65 Degrees, 11% humidity at 0312. Person has fallen in a snowbank and shows no sign of movement. Called police to perform a check on them.

This is perhaps the only action I will see tonight. It was sudden: one minute, they were standing, as if waiting for something to happen.

Hour 10: Int…

As I started to write this entry, I saw something on cameras that made me jump. The person in the snow bank got up, headed for our front entrance, and slammed their entire body against the door. I’m rising from my seat, frantically heading to the entrance with my flashlight and a small speaker, hoping to scare the person away. Upon getting to the front entrance, the sight in front of me caused me shock: A figure dressed in a dark black puff jacket, with a face as pale as the snow itself, and dichromatic eyes, one blue, one green. I began shining my light on it, hoping it would repel this beast. Instead, it was drawn to it like a moth and began pounding harder on the door. When I realized that the glass was beginning to crack, I called the police for backup.

I was not able to make any logs for hours 11-12, as I was anxiously waiting for the police and snow service to arrive. When the police cruiser arrived around 6:00 AM, the creature had given up, probably afraid of the repercussions it would face. The incident served as a reminder to me of the oddities and monsters that exist in the world, especially on the longest night of the year.