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Entry One: Grensew, Illinois

Listen, if anyone's reading this, that means you're either a thief, a friend of mine, or some random schmuck off the street. Any way it is, you better put what you're reading down right now, unless you wanna get tangled up in a mess you can't fix. I don't wanna end up with your death on my hands. Obviously though, you're either clever or dumb enough to keep reading. This notebook contains the entries of my investigations into the Grannal incidents, and the results following my follow-up research into its causes. I can only think of a few reasons why you'd be reading this, and fewer still that mean I'm alive, but it's best that I write up everything that has transpired in the past week now, before I forget or worse; I can't risk keeping this on my laptop though. Who knows what hacker software is on that thing by now, watching my every more. I'll keep writing into this notepad until I run out of paper, then get a new one, so there may be a chance you found an old copy... At least, that's my hope. So, my audience, let me start from the beginning of this nightmare...

My name is Richard Kocher. I'm 21 years old. I'm a North American river otter, though unlike most of my species I don't tend to be the playful type. Mom always said I was the emotional runt of the litter, but boy I was the smartest runt that ever lived. Grades were steady A's most of my life, and I graduated with my Bachelor's Degree in English at the top of my class. I've been working as an editor for the Calliclot Reader, the main newspaper here in Grensew, Illinois. This city is notorious for a few things: drugs, a beautiful view of the Michigan Lake from the skyscrapers, drugs, corruption in every cesspool of the political landscape, and oh yeah, drugs. If you didn't pick on it, the illicit drug business does pretty well here. This place has more crime and gang war than L.A. and more rats for politicians than D.C., and everyone knows it. I'm one of the few who actually says it aloud, though; everyone else is afraid of something around here. The mob could hear you, and shoot you in broad daylight with not a care in the world; a political watchdog could hear you, and you'd have a visit from an "advisor" who'd ensure that your joke was all in good nature.

This crap pile of a city is what I face every day; and I love it. The smeariness of it all, the hypocrisy... It's a dream come true for an editor who loves finding the dirt on those who dig the graves. I've kept meticulous accounts on all sorts of events going on in this town, and I've found the major players of the crime families and the political leaders. I've done better than our layabout police force, half of whom wouldn't raise a finger if some poor soul was mugged right in front of them. Some might even help the mugger.

You're probably wondering where this leaves those mysterious events I was talking about. Well, one week ago, that's when my cozy little world, of idly gathering dirt on these slimeballs and enjoying myself while working towards my Masters, was flipped. I walked into my office, more of a cubicle with four walls and a bit of leg room, and found Starla waiting for me. Starla, a young mongoose who'd transferred from another newspaper a few months before I did, had that cross look on her face, the one she made when she knew I was up to no good. Sort of like a mother's expression at some disobedient runt; come to think of it, my mom's face looked like that a lot.

"What's this?" She asked, holding a manila folder labelled, 'For Mr. Kocher's Eyes Only.' "I've seen three of these in the past three weeks on your desk. They aren't ever stamped, or ever given markings. They're just... In the mail pile, randomly, same day, every week. What're you involved in now, Kocher?"

She seemed to feel some kind of responsibility over me, a common thing with my female friends. They always got this... Motherly attitude, after they got to know me after a while. Like I'm some kid who needs to be told what to do. They really didn't realize how clever I was, until I showed them.

"It's my Hobo-Update." I said, running a webbed paw through my brown hair as I took it gently from her. "I've been wanting to write articles on what it's like being homeless here, so I've been paying the less fortunate to send me typed reports and questionnaire responses."

"And how do these hobos exactly type this stuff up?" Starla asked, her face twisted between her usual neutrality and her motherly expression. "I mean, they don't have computers."

"Half wrong there, Starla." I replied cheekily, opening the folder to reveal a dozen pages worth of responses inside. "Public libraries are wonderful things, wouldn't you agree?"

She rolled her eyes in exchange. "They were, until I knew your hobos use the computers. I'll have to wash my hands every time I use those things now."

"Don't be such an elitist. They aren't so bad, when you give them something to eat and listen to them. They're pretty cool people when you get to know them."

"Whatever." She sighed, and straightened her business suit that was their office's uniform. "I have to get back on that stupid paperwork. I'll see you tonight for our usual Friday dinner?"

I looked back from my laptop, having put away the report into my satchel, and nodded. "Of course. Char's gonna be there as well. You can bring Stinger if you want."

Starla glared at him and sighed tiredly. "Why Char again, Rick? I don't even know why you hang with that chubby Lab. He's weird! He ate all the chips last time, and then wanted to talk about his latest conspiracy breakthrough between his beer belches."

"He's like family to me, Star. He's weird in the head, but a nice guy. Besides, if you haven't noticed, Stinger has a huge crush on him. He was staring at his eyes or his caboose all night two weeks ago."

Starla went beet red in her pointed ears at that. "Stinger is NOT gay, Rick! You take that back! He made out with me once! ... Before we became good friends though..."

I grinned back and shook my head. "Bi then. Have Char order a hot dog, and you'll see. That Rottweiler friend of yours will be drooling the whole time. Maybe I'll insist Char order a banana split after for dessert, for a real treat!"

Starla stormed out, so I had to shout the last bit, but I knew she wasn't really hurt by what I'd said. She was much tougher than she looked, and after she had a few beers herself, her facade of elitism and femininity dissolved; she went from the girl at the office to just one of the guys in an instant. That was what was so great about having her as a friend; she could be a complete bonehead like any guy, and yet still explain the secrets of why women were such pains so much. She was our decoder ring.

Life in the office past by quick that day; Fridays always seemed to. News came in, the writers wrote on it, I glossed over what they wrote, made sad faces in red ink, and handed it back to fix. They'd hand it over again, I'd make a green happy face, and we'd print it. The manager had approved on my work thus far, and generally left me alone. He and I both knew this wasn't a permanent job, so he didn't bother making a close relationship to me; vice versa on my count to him.

As I closed my office for the day, the last one in the office, I felt a small chill; I looked up to see the air vent overhead. The thing always surprised me, no matter how many times its cold air sent shivers through me. As my eyes wandered around the office, taking in the cubicles and offices that were painted in orange twilight, my heart ached a little. I'd miss this place, when I left.

I shook myself; that won't be until I get my Masters! I had plenty of time left to enjoy with my friends and this exciting rot of a city. Even if it means hanging out is reduced to eating at a club-dive every Friday.

As I left the office and walked through the streets, I began seriously reading my Hobo-Update. Nothing too eye-raising at first, usually confirming what the other reports said from previous weeks... Until it came down to the survey on fears. The homeless usually feared hunger, the cold, and stuff like that, but this was different from the last reports; they said they were scared of the dark. Not too surprising, as this was a bad place, but still. It then asked about why they were scared about whatever their answer was; they responded that there were things in the dark now, things that were showing up before that hadn't. They also mentioned that 10-C Street was completely deserted now; no one was willing to go there anymore. 10-C Street was bust by all means, it was scheduled for demolition and the hobos used it for shelter when they could... The fact they wouldn't even touch it made me worried and suspicious. What was there that made them so frightened? What were these things in the dark? Was there some new drug going around, that caused long term paranoia or hallucinations... Or could this be something more than drugged homeless? These questions swirled through my head as I headed downtown. Char was gonna have a heyday when he heard about this.