[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I—I found her diary. And it…well, it feels wrong, it is wrong to read it, but I’ve done a lot of wrong things to survive, and this feels like just another for the pile.

She didn’t write in it very often, at least not after 1969. There are some entries before the incident, just mundane life stuff that I didn’t do much more than skim. It isn’t relevant and I don’t want to violate her privacy more than I have to. 

So it’s best to focus on the entries from ’68 on. At first, it seems like she didn’t notice that something was wrong—it seems like her life was pretty isolated to begin with, spending most of her job outside, on her own, living alone and talking on the phone every two weeks with her daughters. 

Her husband—he’s been dead for a few years it looks like. Or, god, nearly a decade now, I guess. A few years when this whole thing started. His name—

(a dark laugh) You won’t believe this, but his name was Harry. Boy, was that a shock to the system when I read the words “Since Harry passed”. I felt like I was going to faint for a moment before I remembered where I was and what I was reading. I had to take a break for a while after that.  

I’ve had to take breaks a few times. Just reading about someone else’s life is…

I’ve flipped through the journal, and the last entry looks like it’s from a few months ago, with only a few entries each year the last few years. I guess that makes sense. I know I would have very little to write about if I had kept a journal the last five or so years. That first year, sure, but since then…well, not much happens. 

I guess that isn’t true for the last six months. A lot has happened, even if it doesn’t feel like it—I’m barely closer to finding anyone or understanding anything than I was when I started, but compared to the small, monotonous existence of Pennsylvania, my head spins when I think about everything I’ve done since I left. 

I have been keeping a journal of sorts, I guess, in these broadcasts.  I don’t even know who I’m talking to anymore, but you’re getting almost every thought, any substantial event that takes place. If that’s not a journal, what is?

But just like all these transmissions I’m making, I don’t expect Leann’s journal to hold many answers. If she’d known any more than what I did, surely she would’ve figured something out, would’ve left this place, would’ve—would’ve lived.  

Then again, maybe she knew exactly what happened and decided she was better off alone. I’ll just have to read and find out. 

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