Whistlers

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Well, I guess from the title of my journal entry, you’ve figured out my name. I, at least, know that much, other than that, I’m at a loss. I was on my way back to Maine to stop a sociopath (Or is it psychopath? Probably both. I should have paid more attention in my sociology classes, but Betsy Hoegler, who sat two rows up and one over, was oh-so-pretty—wow, there’s a digression—focus, Talbot! That’s probably why you’re in this fucking predicament). Okay, let me try to make my thoughts cohesive.

My name is Michael Talbot (we’ve established that). I am heading back to my brother Ron’s house in Maine to head off Eliza, an evil bitch of a vampire who, for some unfathomable reason, has decided that my family and I should be wiped from the planet like a plague. (Does that make sense? It does in my head, and since I’m writing it, I guess that makes it okay.) I nearly met my end in a house I lit on fire, taking out some potentially misguided vengeance on some cats (the caretakers of the underworld). PETA would probably have my balls in a sling if they knew what I did, but if any of you were there, you’d know why I did it. I laid the whole thing out in my fifth journal, and I have no desire to revisit it; the wound is still too fresh.

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