The Box

You roll over and get down on your hands and knees to look under the bed. It has a simple metal frame, which holds up the thin mattress, but other than that there doesn't seem to be anything. You go to stand up and manage to hit your head on the framework. You hear something fall to the floor near the foot of the bed, which startles you quite a bit. You look around, as this doesn't feel right. Your room still looks the same, and there don't seem to be any devices that would let anyone watch you. Now that you're looking, there doesn't seem to be any apparent source of light, the walls just let off a glow that illuminates the space. Your focus returns to the foot of the bed, where you peek and see a journal of sorts. There is a hand print on the front in red, it reminds you of something, but you can't place what that is.

All of the lettering is in a dark red, and the penmanship is messy. It's hard to tell exactly what the point is. The first page, as you skim over it, seems like a journal entry. You go back and reread it.

I don't know where I am, who I am, or what this place is, but something doesn't feel right. I'm afraid to sleep, but I have been awake for what feels like days, just sitting here, pacing, trying to find a clue. Anything at this point would help. Time is irrelevant, I took to counting in my head in what i think are seconds. Twenty-one thousand, three hundred, twenty-three. What is that? Six hours? It's really hard not to sleep at this point, and I'm getting hungry and thirsty. I can hardly stay awake. I'm too tired to keep writing.

You read the page again, looking at it with wide, scared eyes. Were you trapped in here? Was there really no way out? You take an unstable breath and turn to the next page, it looks like another journal, in the same messy handwriting.

I've been looking for a way out, and I found this journal behind the bed. At first, i didn't know what to make of it. There was only one entry. I'm still not exactly sure, but I am writing this to keep myself sane, I found a pen in the mattress, but there doesn't seem to be any ink. Why not use my own blood, right? I guess I need to stop writing my thoughts and look for more clues. The handwriting becomes even more shaky. I went to read the first entry again... I don't know what to make of this, the handwriting is exactly like mine. I don't remember writing it, and the journal was already under the mattress. What is going on here? I need to get out. There seems to be another shift in the writing, now more calm and legible. I spent all of my energy pounding on the walls... My knuckles are split and i think my left hand is broken. I need to sleep. In case I die, i put my hand print on the cover. If anyone finds this, I don't know... Wishful thinking. I don't think I'm getting out.

You turn the page, unsure of what to make of this. It's in the same handwriting. You don't even read it, and flip the page, same handwriting. It's the same handwriting for about fifty pages, until the book becomes blank. You ruffle through the blank pages, until you find one, near the end, with blotchy handwriting on it. It looks as if a brush or something large was used.

Door behind bed DANGER.

The period, when you look at it, is a finger print. You throw the book down, which lands neatly, front cover up. The hand print. No, you didn't write any of that. It's not your hand print. Someone is going to find you. Someone is looking for you. You can't take your eyes away from the cover. What do you do?

You look around again, trying to keep your eyes off of the book, the walls all look solid, and there doesn't seem to be a hatch in either the the roof nor ceiling. You're still sitting with your legs up to your chest, finding it hard to breathe. The book said something about a door behind the bed, and you look, but you can't see one. You close your eyes tight and steady your breathing. You open them and look at the journal again, that hand print looking more and more familiar.

You look at the wall again, there has to be something important there. But why is it dangerous? You try to get up, but can't move. You hold yourself tighter and take a deep breath. Mustering up all of your will power, you use the bed to get yourself to your feet. The wall looks like the other three, and as you run your hand along it, nothing seems out of place, there are no cracks, lines, or spots to indicate a door or a panel. You start getting frustrated. The journal says that there is something here. Something has to be here, you can't be locked in this room with no hope of escape. There has to be a way. Getting more fed up with this stupid wall, you huff over to the book, and pick it up. You stop, and your blood runs cold. The hand print is facing you, and with a slow reach, you place your hand on the cover. It is splotchy but you're sure that the hand print there is yours. This is your journal. "No," you whisper, jumping at the sound of your own voice. "No," again, louder. "No. No. No..." Why don't you remember anything? What happened to you? Have you been here before? Why does each entry seem like a different person? What is going on. You scream and throw the book at the wall you were previously inspecting. You are frustrated at the book, the wall, this room, the door that isn't there, and with yourself.

What do you do?

You try to regain your composure, but you're standing in the middle of an empty room with no way out, you can't remember anything, you're scared and angry. You stare at the wall behind the bed. You stomp up, grip the bed frame, and hurl it across the room, tears start streaming straight down your face. You punch the wall and then slump your head against it. You're still angry, confused, and scared. You are doing everything in your power not to yell at the wall, you never liked yelling.

The wall felt pretty sturdy when you last punched it, and your hand is bleeding a little. You look at it, you want to tear the wall down, just make it cease to exist. You pick up the journal again and skim through the next few pages, skipping to the entries where useful stuff is. After reading a few minutes, you come across a page with only one line written in. You must have found this important, otherwise you would have filled the page with bullshit, like you had the first dozen pages. "Room Responds To Verbal Commands." A shiver goes down your spine, it couldn't be that easy, could it? Just tell the room what to do? You look at the wall, and remember the line from earlier, about there being danger behind the bed, so you are reluctant to command the room to open that door.

You decide that this is too much for you to handle right now, and a nap is what you need. You lay down, and your stomach drops, it doesn't feel right, something is way too far wrong for you to stay in the bed a moment longer. You sit up shaking, picking up the journal absently, clutching it to your chest. Sleep doesn't feel like an option, you want to get away from this bed more than anything, but you know for a fact that your legs will not support you for a good minute.

You open the journal again, taking a few minutes to read over what you haven't read yet. It doesn't help much, only one of your past 'lives' managed to escape, and they died soon after. Your voice is shaky when you speak up to the room, "W-Why am I here?" You wait, and there is nothing. You speak up, "Why am I here?" Again, nothing. You're getting frustrated. "Why am I here?" You're practically shouting. "Dammit, tell my why I'm here!" In response to your last shout, a small slip of paper slides out from a newly formed slit in the wall, which is gone when you blink and look for it again. The paper flutters to the floor, landing face down.

>Pick up and read paper. Demand food and water while you're at it.

Test this phenomenon. Say "give me a sledgehammer."

> Write down as many names starting with E as you can think of and see if any sound familiar.