Status: time to walk Rabbithead road

okay it's been like two weeks since that weird entry about "the hotel with no name" (don't ask why it's called that, i don't have a damn clue either) and this blog has seen a huge (to me) influx in readership. i never really introduced myself here properly, but considering that there's a lot more eyeballs on me now, i feel kind of obligated.

if you just came here from the last post, don't worry about reading the 11 that came before it. they're just shitty little "ghost" stories from my childhood home, nothing super intense or interesting. up until now i've been avoiding getting into the meat and potatoes of my personal hellscape, even though it's why i made this blog. i guess i chickened out. but here we go. please keep in mind that all of what i'm about to say is 100% real, or at least real to me. i also swear to whatever god will have me that i'm not insane. the proof is in the comments of the last post. there's at least a dozen people who told me they've also been to this hotel, so unless we're all having a mass delusion, or a bunch of random strangers are fucking with me, at least some of what i'm going through has to be real. but i'm getting ahead of myself.

in case it wasn't clear from the general nature of this blog, and from the past entries i just told you not to read, i'm someone with a lot of experience in the realm of the paranormal. ever since i was a little kid i've seen, heard, and felt things that other people don't. i see apparitions of black dogs with empty white eyes in graveyards. i see shadow figures that dart across the wall or lurk in the corners of rooms. i hear footsteps, clanging, indecipherable whispers. i smell the rot of human flesh and walk through patches of wet, empty cold. sometimes there are invisible hands that tug at my limbs or press against my neck. things go missing around the house and reappear in an entirely different room. it doesn't matter how much i pray or smudge or call up psychic mediums to come cleanse my house. nothing ever stops it.

obviously this is a whole lot, and you're probably thinking, hm, have you ever considered that you're just mentally ill? the answer is yes, i have, do you think i'm stupid? but my cats, bless them, always react like there's something there when i see/feel/hear things, which is proof enough for me. and if you're around me long enough, you'll start seeing/feeling/hearing things too. that's the nature of hauntings. real ones. they can rub off on people. and they follow you.

it's not just happenings in the real world, though. i also have dreams. i won't get into most of them here because they aren't important and i don't really want to be psychoanalyzed. all you need to know for context is that when i was 13, i went to sleep and then "woke up" in the hotel with no name. i've been going there at least a few times a year ever since. i'm now 20.

the hotel is almost exactly as the last post described. it's a massive complex, and the elevators do, in fact, not work, so if you want to get anywhere you have to walk. a lot. the hallways (which for the record all have this disgustingly patterned conference-room-style carpet, which is peeling and fraying all over the place. the concrete underneath is like acne splotches on the world's most hideous face. i can't even describe the pattern in words. it's like, blue and brown i think? or red? just looking at it makes my head spin. anyway) never end, and neither does the staircase. luckily things don't move around too much. from my room, the elevator lobby is always six doors down to the left, and the stairwell is directly across from it.

in my next post i'll get into more descriptions of the parts of the hotel mentioned in the last post, but for now i want to explain what's beyond it.

from whatever floor my room is on, if you go up around thirty flights of stairs (i forget the exact number because i never go this way anymore) and walk down the right hallway for a long time, you'll eventually reach the lobby. it's just another dinky little room with a wooden counter along one wall. there's a half-open door behind the counter. yellow light seeps out of it, and if you linger for long enough you can hear shuffling from behind the door, like someone with a limp wandering around and moving cardboard boxes. on the countertop there's a rusty old dinger bell and a clipboard with a bunch of blank paper on it. a few people have scribbled their names, but there's no pen, so god knows how. except for the clothes you're wearing, you can't bring physical items from the real world in or out with you.

across from the counter is a park bench. one of those wooden-slatted ones with the curling iron armrests. there's a purple zip-up coat slung over the back that looks small enough to fit a middle school kid. on the wall above it is a painting of... fuck it, no. i don't want to talk about the painting. there's a fucked up painting on the wall. if this were a real hotel i feel like people might be reluctant to check in because of that painting.

the doors are sliding glass. outside, the parking lot is empty, and the wind smells like the ocean. it did, at least, the last time i went outside, which was three years ago. the hotel is in the middle of the woods, and the parking lot is closed in by pine trees, but there's a gap for cars just beneath the hotel sign. beyond that is a road, perfectly paved dark asphalt and double-yellow lines that glow even when there's no moon.

three years ago, i made a mistake. i walked across the parking lot and out onto the road. i balanced myself on the yellow lines, like a tightrope, arms flung out to either side. cool wind bit at my cheeks. there are so many stars there, and they almost pulsate, throbbing like a heartbeat if you look at them for long enough. but they and the moon do nothing to illuminate the forest. the pines are just jagged rows of black that shudder and creak with invisible life. they're so much sharper than real pines. like teeth. and the wind dies and kicks up at a steady interval, almost like breathing.

i stood there for a while, staring down the straight line of the road until the glowing yellow lines vanished into darkness. i looked over my shoulder. there were 2 little pinpricks of light dangling on the horizon. headlights, maybe, but they never got any closer. i looked ahead again.

i'm being detailed here because this is important. it's when everything changed. i was staring straight ahead without blinking, my fingers splayed out and reaching toward the empty black of the trees, and something changed.

about a half mile down the road, in a gap between the trees, there was an artificial red and white glow. i could just make out the telltale blocky shapes of a gas station. from so far away it was impossible to see the logo, but since the hotel is just called "hotel," the gas station was probably just called "gas station." i don't think sinclair stations exist in anyone's dreams.

the point is i was ecstatic. i almost laughed. there were other parts of this place. here is why this blew my little brains up: i'd been dreaming of this hotel for four years. i'd been wandering these halls and breaking into rooms and encountering random people here for my entire teenage life. the first few times i thought it was just a really vivid dream, but i could feel that disgusting carpet beneath my feet. i could smell all the various miserable smells. i could go anywhere i wanted. i could talk to the other people i found. and again, the layout is always the same. there are certain rooms that never change. i always wake up in the same room (no.1071), and as far as i know, so does everyone else who goes there repeatedly. after all that, i'd finally worked up the nerve to go outside, and now i saw a gas station. proof that there was more. that this is a place.

so, like a pathetic little bitch with too much hope in her heart, i started walking. i made it maybe 150 feet beyond the white glow of the hotel sign before it attacked me.

a branch snapped off to my left, sharp and loud, and i jumped. figuring it was just an animal or something, i took another step forward. maybe if i'd frozen or walked back toward the hotel instead, this next part wouldn't have happened. but i took another step forward, little bits of spongy asphalt digging into my bare foot, and something grabbed me.

it happened too fast for me to register at the time, but that something was a mangled, arthritic human hand. its blackened and chipped fingernails bit into my ankle, blood bursting from the skin, and then it yanked my leg out from under me. hard. so hard that something meaty and delicate in my hip popped like a rubber band.

my head cracked against the road, the funny bones in my elbows twinged, and i shrieked. the pain didn't have much time to sink in, because the owner of the hand was now straddling me. it was person-shaped, but something hanging above its head had blotted out the moon. its breath was cold and smelled like soil. those mangled fingernails dragged up my ribs and then reached my throat, where knobby fingers laced around my neck and started squeezing. i kicked my legs and screamed. i thrashed so hard my head slammed against the asphalt again, and my vision went white for a second. i could feel it trembling on top of me. rhythmic little tremors. i think it was laughing.

with a considerable amount of flailing and effort, i managed to grip the skin of my leg and pinch myself as hard as i could. i woke up in my own bed, in my real bedroom. my arms were scraped up and bloody, bits of asphalt stuck to them. there were claw-like shreds in my t-shirt. the pain in my skull and hip were so bad that i rolled over and puked.

i didn't get a good look at it, that first time. i've seen it plenty now, so i'll give you the full rundown. it has the body of a naked human girl, and from foot to shoulder it's about 5'6". its skin is light olive, but it's covered in ugly yellow-purple-grey blooms of bruises, all over its knees and ribcage and fingers. there's a hole in its sternum about four inches across, which oozes black blood. all of that would be weird enough, but we haven't even gotten to the best part! it has the head of a jackalope. as in, an albino jackrabbit head, blown up to human size, with antlers branching up from between those big floppy ears. the eyes are solid red but filmy. dead-thing filmy.

i call it Rabbithead. seems fitting enough. it follows me. so far only in the hotel world, but i keep waking up expecting it to be standing at the foot of my bed. it never runs. it just follows, wandering the halls with me, somewhere just out of sight. if it gets close enough, if i stay in one place for too long or let my guard down, it reaches for me. and then, usually, i lose my fucking mind and beat it or stab it or whatever until it stops moving. because i know, if it touches me again, it will kill me. it can't speak to me (or make any kind of sound to my knowledge), so don't ask how i know that. i just do.

i probably should've gone to the doctor to have my hip popped back into place and be screened for a concussion. but quite frankly, i was so embarrassed that i'd been physically attacked by some type of sleep paralysis demon that i couldn't even tell anyone i was hurt. i literally burned the shirt i'd been wearing, because i didn't want my mom to see the claw marks if she went through my stuff, and it's not like i could wear it again. i just downed as many painkillers as i could and tried to act normal. so now, on top of being hunted by whatever the fuck Rabbithead is, i also have chronic migraines and a limp.

i'm a very sexy and normal girl, i promise.

if you've been to the hotel, please elaborate in the comments. hey, maybe you've even seen me around! i have greasy pink hair and wear a lot of band t-shirts and plaid pants. i'm half japanese (mom's side). and i'm always covered in band-aids. can't miss me.

there's a lot more i want/need to say, but this is atrociously long and rambling and info-dumpy. my head is killing me. and i need to go for a walk.

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The first eleven posts on Naomi's blog are deleted. It is unknown when they were taken down, by whom, or what exactly they contained, as there seem to be no backups or screenshots of these entries.

We would like to point out the painting in the lobby. Naomi described it as "fucked up," apparently enough so that she believed it could detract guests. After some digging, we were able to find a photograph that Naomi seemingly took of this painting. It's grainy and with very poor lighting, and the tilt and blur of the image suggests that Naomi's hands were shaking when she snapped the picture. There is one advantage to the ammature quality, however: the top edge of the park bench and the jacket are visible at the bottom of the image, which confirms this as the lobby painting. We were able to clean the image up and glean most of the relevant details of this painting:

It appears to be large, nearly as wide as the bench, and has no frame. The medium is likely oil paint. The style is loose and somewhat abstract, but clear forms can be made out. Jagged, barnacle-covered white cliffs fill most of the image. A blue and stormy ocean surges against the rock face. There are three wooden ships drifting among the waves. One of them appears to be missing a large chunk of its hull, and tiny sailors are bailing off the side. The second is about to crash into the cliffs. The third has tilted almost onto its side, and is in the process of being swallowed by a pitch black wave of shadow. At the top of the cliffs, where a small, cloudy patch of the sky can be seen, there is a small human figure.

Although the fate of the ships is grim, there is no clear indication, upon inspection, why Naomi finds this painting to be so disturbing. The hotel is filled with art - some of which is mentioned in entry twelve - and, based on Naomi's photos and own descriptions, much of it is more distinctly and viscerally disturbing than this lobby painting. Perhaps when one is in its presence the painting emits a certain uneasy "aura," though we have no way of confirming that. Given later events, it's also possible that Naomi simply has a strong fear of large bodies of water. Whatever the case, it seemed worth elaborating on this painting in Naomi's stead. Regardless of whether or not it is disturbing, this imagery is relevant to Naomi's case.