I Found A Diary In A Pile Of Used Books And I’m Terrified That The Story Of This Missing Person Is True | Thought Catalog

Pranks are all fun and games until something goes horribly wrong. But occasionally, the fun lies in not knowing which way things will go. We are working with GSN’s terrifying new game show Hellevator, to bring you a story about what can go wrong when a mean-spirited game goes too far. Catch the series premiere of Hellevator Wednesday October 21 at 8/7c.

30dagarmedanalhus / CC BY http://2.0 / flickr.com/photos/-dear-diary/5034427856/30dagarmedanalhus / CC BY http://2.0 / flickr.com/photos/-dear-diary/5034427856/

Before you say anything, yes, I’ll be going to the police. But I wanted to share this with you first.

So my local grocery store, it has this cool thing, see? Right as you walk out with your groceries, there’s this bookshelf. It’s not tidy or orderly but it’s cool, it’s a used book service. You can bring your own for others to read or you can grab one to take home, just stick a dollar in the jar for charity. Honor system.

I’ve snagged a few good ones, nothing super popular or anything but some good true crime stuff. Couple of old mysteries. Then… this.

I first noticed its worn, rosy pink leather with the word “SECRETS” debossed in faded silver. A lock hung uselessly off the side of the book, broken.

I’ll be honest, I thought it was a gimmick. “Secrets” was the title and it was clever marketing shit to get me to pick it up. I thumbed through it–handwritten pages, a pale pink ribbon to mark your spot–and decided to bring the thing home.

I already told you, I’m going to the police. But this is what I found inside, starting on page one.

March 11, 1991

Brad is gone and it’s all my fault. It’s been three days.

I know I flew off the handle. I said things I can’t take back but goddamn it he’s just such a jerk sometimes. We’re supposed to do that big-brother little-sister shit but that got old after we graduated high school.
Mom’s inconsolable. She keeps saying it’s just one of his pranks. “He’ll be back, Jennifer. He’s just playing one of his ‘games’.”

I know all about Brad’s “games”. He was famous for them as a kid and you’d think he’d grow out of it, a guy in his 20s with a job and car insurance, but no—Brad still found time to pour icewater in my shower or trap my deodorant in a jello mold. I don’t know why I moved in with him in the first place.

Yes I do. Because I don’t have the money for my own place.

But Brad was nice about it, at first. He said it’d be fun to live together. Even offered to take me out for my birthday. I should’ve known better.

Mom gave me this journal when I was a little kid. I found it when I moved, thought it was lame and didn’t really give it a second thought. Now that Brad’s gone, though, I feel awful and I thought maybe writing about it would help. Anything’s better than listening to the police talking to Mom in the kitchen, telling her that they’re still looking, but more than 48 hours has passed and those are the most important when a person goes missing.

March 12, 1991

Brad is still gone. He’s still not home. The police told Mom he’s probably just blowing off some steam, he’s a youngish guy and he might just be slumming it somewhere, getting drunk or hooking up.
They don’t know that we were already drunk when it happened. I should’ve told them that in the beginning, I guess.

I thought I heard stuff moving around in my kitchen last night but when I got up, no one was out there. The cabinet doors were open but maybe I forgot to shut them.
I haven’t been sleeping much.

March 15, 1991

Mom just sits in her bedroom and cries. She won’t come out and talk to me so I go back to my empty apartment. It’s a lot quieter without Brad.

Brad’s been gone for a whole week now. They’ve been putting up pictures of his face all over town. He’ll probably be on the news soon.

I’m trying to make myself write about what happened but it’s hard.

We’d been drinking, like I said. Wandering back from downtown because we were celebrating my birthday and we were both too smashed to drive. Got to this sketchy part of town and I knew it was Brad, he’d lead us there on purpose.

I told him it was shitty, he was a guy and he might think it was funny—one of his “games”—but us girls know the bad part of town at night and drunk is just a recipe for disaster.

He didn’t care. He said, “C’mon, let’s check out this building, I hear it’s haunted!”

That’s Brad for you. I’m drunk and hungry on my birthday, thinking we might just have a good time as brother and sister for once, and he leads me to an abandoned building at midnight.

I begged him not to go in but he went ahead anyway and I didn’t have a choice — if I didn’t follow him, I’d be alone, so I went in with him.

He shouldn’t have gone there. He shouldn’t have made me go.

I don’t feel like writing anymore.

March 17, 1991

I keep waking up in the middle of the night. Weird enough it’s the same time every night: 2:36 am. It’s probably just nerves but I feel like someone’s watching me.

Brad’s still gone.

March 18, 1991

Why did Brad insist on going in that building? Why couldn’t we have just had a nice time for my birthday?

I followed him into that building, this hulking monstrosity that was probably an old apartment complex or something, a place that no doubt wasn’t haunted at all but just an excuse for Brad to play one of his “games”. I mean, I should’ve known that, I guess.

He started running up the stairs. Taking them two at a time. I had to take off my heels to catch up to him and was scared the whole time like I might step on a hypodermic needle or something. This place was a real dump.

I almost fell down the stairs and that made me mad, I almost dropped my shoes and when I rounded the corner to tell him so Brad jumped out from behind a big hunk of concrete and yelled “BOO!” Like a stupid little kid.

Except it worked, I screamed and dropped my shoes AND my purse and they went tumbling down the broken concrete steps and Brad just laughed and laughed and laughed.

I got so mad. I started hitting him. I don’t think I would’ve been as mad if I hadn’t been drunk but I was.

He was laughing still, backing away and shielding himself with his arms while I slapped and shrieked that he was an asshole, he was the worst brother ever, he was a shitty person and a horrible roommate and the only reason I was even living with him was because I was too broke for my own place and if I had the money I wouldn’t bother to see him ever again.

Yeah, it was mean. But I meant it.

What I didn’t mean was for Brad to keep backing up while I swatted at him. I wanted him to stand there and take it but he kept laughing and backing up and all of a sudden he was gone.

He was there, right there in front of me, and then gone, down the open elevator shaft neither of us saw. Down all five floors. If I had to guess, it was probably 2:36 am.

I’m only writing this because my apartment isn’t so quiet anymore. Brad’s still gone but… he’s not.
I think he followed me home.

March 20, 1991

Okay, Brad, see? I’m doing it. I’m writing. Stop screaming at me. I can’t take the screaming.

When he fell down the elevator shaft I should’ve gone for help but I didn’t. I was scared, okay? I was worried someone would think I pushed him and I don’t know, maybe I sort of did, so I didn’t go for help. I covered him with rubble and debris and I left him there because I thought they’d find him and maybe think he got murdered for his wallet or something but they haven’t found him and at this point it’s too late to tell the cops or I’ll be implicated.

I can’t tell them, Brad, please stop screaming!

March 26, 1991

Brad wants me to go to the police but I can’t. I don’t want to go to prison. He keeps playing these pranks, stacking all my chairs on top of each other, turning all the pictures on the wall backwards, making the faucets run blood instead of water. It’s his stupid games but now they’re worse because he’s angry and now he has more power.

I hoped just writing it out would help but he’s not happy. He wants me to pay but I did, I paid just by being his sister. Something like this was bound to happen, you know? Him and his “games”.

I’m starting to get pretty scared but I don’t know what to do.

March 30, 1991

This is Jennifer I did it I pushed Brad

Brad is never coming back so I did what I had to do

Consider this my suicide note

Brad is gone and it’s all my fault TC mark

This post is brought to you by Hellevator – the terrifying new game show premiering Wed Oct 21 8/7 C on GSN.

I Found A Diary In A Pile Of Used Books And I’m Terrified That The Story Of This Missing Person Is True | Thought Catalog.Source: I Found A Diary In A Pile Of Used Books And I’m Terrified That The Story Of This Missing Person Is True | Thought Catalog

Zine Making a Mini Documentary

Zine-making is as easy or elaborate as you make it. Start with the supplies—for a basic zine, all you’ll need is a pen, paper, glue and a pair of scissors. From there, the possibilities are endless. Honesty, self-expression and personal satisfaction are the only core values of zine-production according to the “Cut & Paste” mini-documentary.

Quoted from: Unte Reader – How to Make your own Zine

Photography Replaces Writing

photograh

This was my Twitter post today. What do you think? Will written content lose it’s place to photography? I think it already has.

Most people want to get news and information in seconds. The image with a story, is the story. Writers post images to illustrate the story, or a point in the story, or just to add something visual. Photographers, capture the story in an image. Of course, the image can’t give all the information. However, people see the image and decide they know the entire story.

They might read photo’s caption, if there is one. They might read at the headline, once or twice. Headlines are easy to find in the content, easy to read too.

Headlines and subtitles can give some detail but they weren’t written to tell the whole story. These days the snippets of written content might be all anyone reads to form their opinion and decide what the writer/ journalist was communicating.

The Internet is changing how we read, how we gather information and how we evaluate what we find. Details get missed. Assumptions are made and stuck with religiously. Kind of like the Emperor’s Clothes. If everyone says so it must be true. We don’t have time to gather facts and come up with our own opinion. It’s easier to take up the popular opinion and defend it as truth because if it’s wrong… we might look stupid.

So much is changing. Writers need to become photographers or image makers if they want their content skimmed/ read at all.

The Culture of the Diary

If you’ve never kept a diary, try it for one week. Write a note to yourself every day and see how it goes. If you already keep a diary give it an update or think of something unusual to write about. What haven’t you confessed to the clean, white pages? What are you holding back, even there?

From Samuel Pepys to Bridget Jones, the private journal combines the mundane with the confessional. Lucy Scholes reveals why the diary still fascinates readers.

Source: BBC – Culture – Anne Frank and the cult of the diary

What Do You Write on a Postcard??

The first picture Postal Card was Sent as a Joke!

The Origin of the Modern Post Card

In 1840 the British author Thomas Hook made a post card with caricatures of postal workers on it. It was meant to amuse and irritate the workers as it went through the mail. I imagine it did, I am sure he got a lot of attention.

Hook didn’t send it out to anyone else, he addressed it to himself, so he could be sure of having a grin and a chuckle at the end of the process.

From – What Do You Write on a Postcard?

This post has suggestions from humour to writing a mini journal. All good ideas. What do you tend to write on a postcard? Do you only send them when you’re travelling?

Postcards are also a nice way to give someone personal mail (a letter) without having to say a lot. Nice when you’re trying to be nice and send a personal note to someone you don’t know very well.

How would you write a postcard to a Great-Aunt you’ve never met?

Who Will Read your Diary in the Future?

I write a diary. You could also call it a journal but I prefer diary because that feels connected to history and all the women who have kept a diary through history. Since the early days of writing on paper women have documented their thoughts, their lives and their ideas.

We write with someone in mind, a reader.

It may be a generic reader or you may think of an actual person as you write. I do. The person I write to has changed over the years. I think I wrote to myself when I was a kid. It’s hard to remember and know for sure what I was thinking as I wrote so long ago when my mind was so much less complicated. Then I wrote for the people. I used to think my diary would be read long after I’m gone but it would be used for my biography, whoever took up the task of writing it.

At some point I began to edit myself as I wrote. Having that reader in mind, I started to think about how much I didn’t want the world to know versus how much I wanted to write about everything in my head. Writing a diary is a release, a freedom of thought and a way to organize your emotions too. But, when you think of someone else actually reading all of that… your outlook changes.

Now I try to write just for myself again. Thinking too much about the reader took away too much of what I needed from the whole thing of keeping a diary. So, they all join each other in a big storage box as I run out of space to write. But, I don’t know if anyone will ever read them. At least not until I am long gone and will never know (or hear) what people say about the real me in the pages of those hand written books.

The history of women is in our diaries, our letters and our crafts. I’m so glad to see the history of women being pulled from obscurity.

So few women managed to become a part of recorded history, other than being mentioned as the daughter, wife or sister of some important man. So much of women’s history is lost. What was it really like to be a woman, daughter, wife, Mother or sister in the 1600’s? Those were the days when North America was being discovered by Europeans. I’d really like to know about women in early, ancient and prehistory. In such early days we don’t have history of any people but those who were politically important, enough to have been written about. Of course, in those early days of writing, it was rare for women to be taught to write.

I think about that sometimes. I don’t take writing and being about write for granted. We record our own history, in our own words. That is something of value – our way of having a mark on the world, even if we aren’t sure we really want someone else to read it!

 

Zine Making

Have you ever put together a zine? Do you even know what a zine is?

A zine should be creative with art too. Maybe some fiction or cartoon drawings. Personal essays and rants and artistic commentary all belong in a wide variety of zines I have seen and admired.

If you were going to take on the experiment of publishing your own zine, what would you make it? Once you pull together a plan think of a great name for the zine.

You may never actually put together a zine but you could take an hour to imagine yourself as a trendy, arty, underground or indie publisher of a zine.

Write Like a Diarist

Most people who keep a diary / journal write with an audience in mind. They write to someone, even if they don’t ever plan to let anyone else read what they have written.

Try writing a diary entry about your day, or pick an average sort of day to write about. Choose who your audience is. As you write change your audience to someone else about midway through. How does this change what you write and how you are writing it?

Daisy Yellow’s Creative Experiments

Daisy Yellow is an art journalist with regular posts with Creative Experiments, Kick Start your Art Journal and Art Journalling 101.

Use familiar stuff in a new environment

This is easy. Take your show on the road. If you draw mandalas at night before bed, draw at a cafe. If you mostly shoot photos of your kids, photograph iron gates or weathered doors. If guitar is your thing, get friends together to play at your house.

Use new stuff in a familiar way

Build on something you know how to do. If you paint flowers with watercolors, paint the same subject with acrylics. Shoot a roll of black + white film instead of digitals. Sketch with thick markers rather than a black pen. Make orange-spiced pecan muffins instead of blueberry-walnut.

Use familiar stuff in a new way

This means playing with your materials! If you know do mono-printing with a rubber brayer, use a brayer to make an art journal background. If you embroider on aprons, try stitching on an art journal page.

Explore completely new stuff

What sparks your curiosity? What would you try if failure was irrelevant, just to try it? If knitting is your passion, experiment by making a bracelet with FIMO polymer clay. If you design digital graphics, try pottery or learn to knit a scarf. If you usually play guitar, try painting with watercolors. For me, freestyle embroidery was intriguing yet out of my comfort zone. You can also pursue this idea by taking a class ~ you can find a course (web or live) in hand dying fiber, photography, photoshop, watercolor, ceramics, jewelry making, sewing, guitar, sculpturing recycled junk, making bread.

Read all the posts from past Creative Experiments on Daisy Yellow.