#THE PENCIL MUSTASHE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

writerwithbrainrot · 10 months ago

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Prologue

Warnings: Mention of murders, stalking, Dismembering.

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The sounds of clicking of keys and phones ringing echoed across the room that many were in, all working on specific cases. These kinds of cases were not the ones that were actively displayed or talked about to the public, asmany of these events were too gruesome to even talk about to reporters. But it didn’t stop the investigators working at their desks, putting pieces of a screwed up puzzle together to try and get the answers they very much seeked for. But one man wasn’t at his desk, no, the empty desk with the name plate ‘Kyle McGravel’ on it was devoid of it’s occupant, was had opened the door to the large space he was familiar with and began to rush through it. The old, worn out, faded blue book in his hands had red stains on it held so tight in his hand you’d think it would tear apart at the seams, or at least fall apart as it looks at least ten years old, maybe a little younger.

Kyle passed by a lady standing near her desk holding a coffee, nearly knocking into her, yet he didn’t care. His eyes were glued to the glass door of this room’s chief, the words ‘Gavin Buckler’ on the tinted glass of his higher up’s office door. He stopped, harshly knocked on the door and didn’t wait for an answer, opening the door and barging into the older man’s office. Buckler looked alarmed, head moving from the lit up screen of his computer and to Kyle.

“Good Gracious, boy!” the old man exclaimed, his mustashe dishevled and grey hair all messed up from running his hand through it. “You shouldn’t just barge in here! I’m busy speaking to other department’s chiefs, trying to figure out this whole ‘Email’ business! You just about gave this old man a hear attack.”

Mr. Buckler was around 70 years old, yet still as boysterous and up beat as someoe in their early thirties. When someone would ask how he was still so active, he would always just chuckle and say “My wife, bless her heart always makes the best Ziti, and I wont be leaving this earth for as long as she still makes it.” But you could tell the stress of the cases they were working on were wearing on the old man, as his sparkly blue eyes looked tired and his skinwas more pale than usual.

Kyle sat down on a chair opposite of Mr. Buckler, his chesnut brown hair just as messy as the old man’s and his face already collecting wrinkles on his smooth skin. “I found sothing you’ll want to see.” He said in a rushed tone, holding out the book in his hands to Buckler, who took it in his hands and opened it, putting on his reading glasses and flipped the cover. “I was at a crime scene, at this home in the suburbs about a hour from the city. The wife was in hystarics and her husband had been slaughtered, head sliced off and he was bruised like someone was kicking him.”

“Boy, this is a diary.” Mr. Buckler said, showing Kyle the first page, with the stiff front page holding the words ‘Property of Loriana Therma’ that had been written in pencil at firstbut written over in pen. “This is the diary of a teenage girl.”

Kyle paused “Yes, I know that, but flip to the first few pages and look at the dates. Let me finish.” Mr. Buckler did as told, putting his glasses back on and flipping a few pages. “The wife told me that her husband, the victim, was a collecter. He liked collecting old items from thrift shops and antique stores. I found this in the house and read through it a bit, and i got info from the wife that when he had purchased this book from an antique vender that they had started to get stalked. Now he is dead.” Kyle took a breath, and took a few seconds to let his throat relax before soeaking again. “I didn’t think anything of it at first, but then I remembered something. Most of the cases I have looked at, that some of my colleagues are looking at, all have one thing in common. That these victims came into possession of THIS notebook and either wrote something in it or read through it. I wasn’t sure of it at first but all the people who mentioned something about a diary or a journal all described the same thing.”

Kyle pulled out a menilla folder from under his arm and flipped through it, catching Mr. Buckler’s full attention. “ ‘My friend started to act strange after she found a diary, and she wrote an entry or too in it before she became paranoid. It was blue and and looked old with weird stains on it. She lost it and wanted to look for it. That was the last I saw fo her alive.’ “ Kyle recounted, flipping through to another page.

“ ‘ Kennedy wanted to practice removing and replacing the hard cover of books for a person project so we went to an old store to pick some up. We got about five, a funky red one, one that looked like a sea colored crayon covered in dust, an old blue one with weird stains on it, and two matching yellow ones. He started to change after that.’ “

Kyle read a few more before stopping and looking to see the old man’s face. “Almost all of these cases are connected by THIS book. And I recognize that name. Loriana Therma. My dad worked on a case in Ohio, and I heard him told mom about this teenage girl who ran off in fear and started a killing spree, and they couldn’t find her. Her name was Loriana. I was a younger boy but I think that this woman and the people she was once running from are here, killing off innocent people for no reason!”

The two men looked down at the diary, now closed on the desk, suddenly looking more ominous than before. The silence between the men was suddenly deafening, before the old man slowly opened the book again. “If that is true, then maybe there can be answers in this book. Maybe it's my old mind finally catching up to me, however, I want to see if there is a reason for this madness. A reason for these murders if they are all tied together.”

Kyle nodded, and, with a feeling of sudden danger in his stomach, started to read the first entry. . .

. . . . .

On a dark back road in the back of a stolen cat, a woman with messy brown hair asleep with her head on the shoulder of a man with a mask in his hands and a cigarette in his mouth opened her eyes. Her once chocolate brown eyes once full of hope were now dull and tired. Her Orange hooded team mate sat in the front, driving with the radio playing country music. And the boy twitching and ticking in the passenger seat trying to relax, yet he couldn't help but twitch and pop his muscles.

She made eye contact with the hooded man in the rear-view mirror, and said in a tired, soft voice "Someone has gotten their hands on the diary. . . "

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#marble hornets inspired #marble mornets #The Diary of Loriana Therma

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