Dear reader,
My name is Red. Red St Vincent. Yes, that's my real name. I'm a reporter with the Chicago Chronicle. I'm writing this in case something happens to me and someone is kind enough to save my stuff. They burn things when someone dies around here, so fingers crossed.
This could be my final transmission, so to speak, so I'll get to the point: there's something really wrong here. I've been chasing the trail for months and it all leads to Lost Vegas. It was supposed to be my final stop, but it looks like I'll have to cut my trip short. I can't guarantee my safety there, and I don't even know if I'll be alive tomorrow morning. Tell them, tell everyone. Tell the chief. THERE'S SOMETHING IN LOST VEGAS.
Right now a sandstorm is coming over Rosier while the town wakes up, braving and breathing sand to get to work, school, whatever. Weather never lets the citizens of Rosier, Nevada forget their duties.
It's a tiny desert town, real close to Lost Vegas, but less bright. You can see the neons in the night if you squint. But nobody's really looking outside at night.
I'm putting this down with an old decrepit typewriter I got from the junk store in town. My last one mysteriously caught fire. For the last six weeks the blank paper has been staring at me, taunting me, daring me to write out something about this town – but nothing. I don't have anything. And isn't that a little embarrassing? Me, a reporter, with nothing to report.
I could tell you about the bipolar weather, or the bountiful oasis in the middle of the town that trickles clear blue water and is forbidden to gaze upon for longer than three moments, lest it unleashes its wrath upon you. At least, that's what they say. I haven't tried it.
The people are nice, with their helpful smiles and helpful hands and vacant eyes, staring out at the neighboring city, watching the neon lights flicker on, mournful. Dreading the night. Things change when it gets dark. Nobody goes out. I haven't tried that, either. But I'm going to, tonight.
I need to know what it is; what they're not telling me.
I hear things, creeping around in the dark, footfalls heavy, lungs - if that's what the sound is - heaving. Rattling. Things leave traces, black oozing puddles of sour-smelling liquid that singe the sandy ground. They tell me not to touch it and someone in a hazmat suit usually shows up and quickly cleans it away.
There are knocks on my window sometimes, a gentle tapping like a knife on glass. I don't look. They tell me to pull the covers over my head, like that will save me if whatever's out there decides it wants me.
They tell me it comes from Lost Vegas.
Three people have been taken during my stay here and if the Rosier Police Department won't do anything, then I will.
I know its stupid, but its compelling me. Maybe its the thrill of a story, or whatever Chief calls it. All I know is that I can't live like these people, not knowing. And I can't leave here with the knowledge that I probably could have done something. So I'm doing something.
If I don't make it, tell Carmen "I told you so."
- Red St Vincent, 19XX.