June 21, 11:24 PM.

Ryan, you may or may not read this, y'know, depending on if Old Joe Bush decides to murder me. I just sent my last text to you, and I'm going to go for it. I'll try to record as much as I can. My Flashlight is one light, plus the light on my camera. Two is just too bright.

Ryan you don't know how freaky this is. It's like Paranormal Activity meets Thriller. I keep expecting Michael Jackson to pop out of one of these graves. That made it worse. I need to scream, but fear waking the nightmares hiding beneath my feet.

I think I found it.

Ryan, why aren't you picking up your phone? This would be much less scary if I had you to talk to. I swear I heard like, a branch snap or something. I panned back, and may have seen something… I can't be sure. Back to digging.

It's a Projector. I can't plug it in until I get to my next stop. Ryan, compared to what I just did, I'd kill for the time we were locked in the dredge. At least then we had each other.

June 22, 2:15 AM

It's the Apostle. I swear I can't see him ever again. Something about his voice makes it feel like Old Joe Bush has a gun, that Winchester in the map, pointed at my head, ready to shoot.

Ryan, I need to talk to yo-

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I leaned back in the driver seat of my car, laptop balanced on my knees. A few clicks later, I deleted all I had written. I closed the journal I scrawled notes in and tossed it in the glove compartment. Some things are better said than read.