Fiction · noise in the room upstairs

Entry #6: Blackouts


I black out sometimes.

I was pouring old coffee down the kitchen sink. I watched the black ink swirl and get swallowed down by the malodorous maw. The sound of liquid hitting the outer rim woke me to my senses. It’s a harsh metallic sound like a waterfall beating down on a metal plate. All the little drops of water pronouncing themselves as they get lost to the sewage system.

There’s nothing for it, I guess.


I hate the looks I get from the mirror. The static that filters throughout the house. The ping of the monitor when I receive notifications.


There’s something living outside my window. I don’t know what but I feel it in my bones. I see eyes peeking at me from across the street. I don’t think it’s human. Maybe a spirit.

Gregory Bolkansky of Supernatural Weekly asserts that spirits usually have a way of stalking their prey before taking their souls. The victims of failed soul kidnappings all recount feeling a sort of eerie foreboding. Sudden chills, a biting paranoia, and an inability to sleep are apparent signs of a spirit haunting.

The Woman in the Television told me I was being ridiculous but she had an odd way of saying it. A knowing way of saying it. She said I won’t remember any of this. She said all I do is based on a lie.

I think she’s the real liar.


Lucidity is an illusion.

Fast food beef is also an illusion. I wish people would stop asking about it. Either order your mystery beef or leave.


The streetlights are winking at me. I don’t like the shadows they make on my wall.

Time to pull out the midnight toolbox.


I think I’ve just made a breakthrough.

The wiring for the helmet didn’t produce enough electric currency for a complete conversion. The blue and yellow wire, in particular, had many pitfalls. Probably crisscrossing their outputs and rewiring it to a more powerful output could make up for the lack of current. Or it could drain the entire city block of power.

But that fails to account for the audio-visual input. Dr. Greg McGovern said that if certain stimuli fail to align, it may be crucial to boosting neurotransmitter transmissions. Taking off brand meds of a certain caliber could easily remedy this but it’s risky. Too risky.


Mira rocks out to EDM music when she seeks out midnight muses. As the sound of basses dropping and discordant computer sounds pound at the walls, I could the number of scratches on my floor. I’m currently at 27.

Maybe I should make more of an effort to clean.


I woke up choking and screaming on my living room floor. I had a dream of a feathered boa strangling me. The feathers got stuck in my throat. I couldn’t breathe.

Ms. Clark was laughing like a tractor engine as she sent out more of her boas to tie me down. They slithered towards me and like chains wrapped around my arms, legs, torso. They were squeezing me to death. I could feel my bones crunching under the weight.

When I was good and tied up, the witch smiled at me and took out a needle and thread. She started stabbing each of my appendages with her needle, each sounding like a car crash as they tore through the skin, muscle, and bone. I prayed for the noise to stop and just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, I woke up to her usual noise.


I hear the sound of a distant howl. It brings back memories.

Dear old grandad. I hope he’s rotting more gracefully than he lived.

I had an imaginary friend once. He was a gentleman pirate with a hook hand who liked to take long hot baths. My sister said that was weird but she thinks everything I do is weird. She’s that type of sister.

Anyway, we went treasure hunting one time in the backyard. We ended up wandering into the thick backwoods and found some animal bones buried beneath a certain tree. We both agreed that it would be a great idea to keep it but my mother figured us out before I even got it to my bedroom. She took it and said she threw it away. I think she might have angered the spirit of whatever that was because it wasn’t too long before my grandfather started to take on wolf-like behaviors.

Where was I going with this?


There are other me’s out there. Several me’s living a different variation of my current life. One could be a successful engineer. Another is locked up in some crazy house somewhere raving at the walls. Another was eaten by his grandfather a long time ago. My skeleton already picked clean by the bugs, worms, and decay six feet deep. Maybe another dead me didn’t even have that luxury and found his rotting corpse on a witch doctor’s operating table. Maybe I’m a zombie in that one.

I question my choices—my life—constantly. Is it really worth the same amount as any other life? Is it possible it lacks value based on what I’ve chosen to do with it? I’m not sure at this point and I’m not sure if I’d like the answer. At least I’m not on a witch doctor’s table.

But to get serious for a moment, I sometimes can’t fathom my little pocket of reality. I look up and question why things are the way they are. How come, out of all the colors in the world, the sky chose to be blue? You can read countless articles on the subject showing from an objective viewpoint that the sky is blue for this, this and that reason but have we ever really questioned if the simple observation itself was incorrect. What if the sky wasn’t blue but a funky red but due to how the human eye perceives light, we can’t help but see the sky a certain color.

I find myself questioning the varying details of my life because reality is so transient and subjective. What if I’m not really in an apartment but hooked up in a room with wires running down my back? What if my neighbors are figments of my own imagination? What if the Woman in the Television was nothing more than a blank screen? These questions terrify me but I find myself asking them. As if I’m tempting fate and asking reality to crash in on me. My world shattering before my eyes. Someone pulling the plug and the dream would be over.

I just want a definite sign. Something telling me that everything’s okay and this is real. As the days roll on and the edges of my reality are increasingly smudged, it’s harder to tell.

Maybe it’s the insomnia talking.

6:17 AM

I don’t remember writing any of this.

This notebook has been missing for a good few weeks now. One day, I woke up and no matter where I looked, I couldn’t find it. I feared that one of my neighbors took it and I began to inquire about its whereabouts when I found it hidden under my kitchen sink.

Am I sleep writing? Maybe I should lock this away so I won’t write anything I’ll regret. It will also help me keep track of it since I can’t recall how I lost it in the first place.
I think I should rip out these pages. They don’t really make sense and I can’t really place the details surrounding most of them.

The Woman in the Television said that I would be lying if I tear the pages out but lying to who? No one will ever see this besides me. She rolled her eyes and said I answered my own question.

I still don’t get her. Maybe I was on to something when I said that she was a liar.


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