Roadtripping to an Anomaly

For the love of all blue-footed booby birds that have trekked where none have trekked before, I still have not found the town of REDACTED . My first official blog post might as well be about this unfortunate fact.

If you haven’t been keeping up with the “About" page I’ve been updating throughout the past month, then that’s understandable considering how I’m not going out of my way to make sure this blog gets found (even if I’ve made it public). I’ll introduce myself. My name is Mazarine Blu, and if such a thing matters, I often go by Zari. I also go by Maz.

So! I started the year by embarking on a roadtrip because I finally did it: I bought my own Mystery Mobile. The van is remarkably similar (in make and model) to the one in the cartoon Booby Blu, What Do We Do? My childhood dream of having a mystery-solving gang of my own (I’d be honored to be a mixture of Ted, Thelma, and Booby Blu herself) is but one step closer to being realized.

Years ago, I told my old roommate, Rorfu, that no matter where our branching paths would lead in life, I would make it a point to get back in touch with her after acquiring my dream van. Though she went on to become a nurse and I went on to become a private investigator for quite some time, Rorfu was always one of the few people around me who never scoffed at my true ambition.

I aim to be a paranormal investigator with a crew of mystery-solving misfits, traveling from coast to coast and exploring the grand unknowns. Before I take any further strides towards achieving this, I decided that calling Rorfu was simply not enough. I need to see her, too, and show her my van in person.

However, I’ve spent the better part of my roadtrip lost.

Though Rorfu said I’m almost there now and I love her like kin, it must be said that she was never the best with directions. I usually wouldn’t mind. However, I can’t find any information about her town online, and not even Breddit can help me now. I know REDACTED is real. Other people are aware of it, too.

It’s bizarre how the world is trying to tell me that this town doesn’t exist.

It’s not just being unable to reach REDACTED that has me questioning everything, either. The devil is in the details. No matter how ridiculous it all surely sounds, all I type here is the truth, as I perceive it. What would I have to hide writing in this rather unknown personal blog, anyhow?

First of all, on the day I called Rorfu and got her (vague) directions to the town, I stumbled upon this bloodied letter that seems to be addressed to me—and from REDACTED . It was beneath my tire when I went to a general store for roadtrip supplies, but I only noticed it after I had went in the store and bought what I needed.

It’s also a concerning read, but I have shared a picture of the envelope here, along with a brief summary of the letter that lies therein. Content warning: blood (on the envelope) and allusions to… cannibalism? It’s hard to tell. It’s definitely from a disturbed individual, but I’m being careful with my movements and am making it a point to update people about my location at different times of the day. Long story short, I’ve been met with worse messages during my time as a private investigator. I won’t be intimidated away from seeing my friend.

(Click the arrow to see.)

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What’s debatedly more distressing to me is how I can’t say the name of the town. I can type it here. I can read it in front of me—but it turns out nobody who knows the name can say it plainly. It makes no sense. The town name consists of perfectly ordinary words, though they are hardly a name for any living place. And yet… when I go to say the syllables, to put sound to the consonants and vowels…

…it simply won’t happen.

The effort to say the name can’t be seen, either; mouths become smudged like thumbed clay or motion-blurred stills in the one to two seconds it takes to finish the phrase, and though this is thankfully more of an optical illusion than anything, to try and say the name myself leaves my tongue feeling as if I just tasted something freezer-burnt: sandy and cold. Then, the nerves in my face feel like popping candies, or similar to how they would in a limb shaking off sleep.

It’s absurd. The aftertaste of this sensation lingers for hours, too. (Edit: The name isn’t appearing when I post, either. Just a blank space in the V̸̤͔̪̙̭̪͕̺͇̜̘̠̙̤̩͈͓̮̠̟̟́̋́͑͛̌̒̕͝͝o̸̡̨̙̱̥̯̠̘͖̗̩̩̯̤̹͉͖͓̜̟̒̄̾̿̇̈́̿̒̈́̄͝͠ͅi̸̢̛̤̜̟̮̗̯̣͓̱̙̳̯̪̳͍̙̹̱̰̬̼̻͖̼͉̣̲̬̅̽̾̓̿̓̕͘͘͜͝d̵̛̛̛̻̍́̓̏̒͋́̅̏͑̌̐̂͘. Lovely.)

What’s more, I have been repeatedly subject to what I can only call anti-ads. Posters that others say are displaying sandwiches or movies or lawyers, for instance, are instead plagued with such phrases as “STOP SEARCHING” or “STAY AWAY”. Such images look like black censor bars with white text stamped atop them. Up until arriving in the city of Calikin (where I’ve been staying for around a week, asking around about Rorfu’s town), nobody else has been able to see the same messages I have.

Even after nights of dissociating/rejuvenating in hotel baths, I still see and hear the anti-advertisements. They only make me want to figure out what’s going on even more. Sometimes, I hear them on the radio. Other times, in my playlists I downloaded a long time ago. It’s always a baritone of a voice that rattles my skull, repeating phrases such as “STOP LOOKING” or “TURN BACK” like monotoned mantras. I haven’t told Rorfu about any of this over our calls because she’d likely tell me not to visit her after all, regardless of the reason.

But I felt vindicated today when I met a man named Sloan. He can see the same anti-ads I can.

He was a bartender up until several hours ago, when he quit the job quite casually and said he’d help me to the town because the only way to get to it “now” is to go with someone who has been there before. He apparently has. Of the people who do know of the town I intend to travel to—as I met quite a few in Calikin and a couple in Advanona—only Sloan has been willing to offer this much.

Ergo, I’m letting this man be my navigator. We’re setting off tomorrow. He says the drive shouldn’t take any longer than two hours. I’m typing this late at night.

From the brief time I’ve known Sloan thus far (and though he may read this later), I suspect that despite his ever-present smirk and sarcastic quips to my very civil attempts at conversation, Sloan is a man driven by whimsy more than any sinister intents. One lead led to another today, and by evening I had found myself talking to Sloan at the bar counter of a dimly lit establishment where the cocktails were served on napkins and smoke settled like a morning fog. He knows the town, he never shied away from my questions, and he seems to find some immense entertainment in my situation (but that’s neither here nor there).

Sloan also said that if I’m committed to this, then it’s only going to get weirder from here. He definitely knows more than he lets on.

This roadtrip so far has been disturbing, yet thrilling. It’s like my first paranormal investigation has already started.

Don’t worry, to anyone who reads this—I’ll still keep my wits about me around Sloan and anyone else I meet. It is worth mentioning that Sloan expressed interest in being a paranormal investigator, too. Perhaps that’s why he quit his job and mentioned he’ll be bringing camera and surveillance gear when we leave in the morning (which he apparently already has). We’ll see how it goes, since further discussion is needed before it’s decided that he travels with me in the longterm.

Today, I gained my guide and cameraman. Tomorrow, we’re heading even further into parts unknown.

No matter what may come of this trip, I’m ready to see it to the end and document my experiences here.

Edit on 1/31: Adding a picture of me and my van before we set off this morning! Sloan says all his professional gear is from an old job, but I’m very impressed by the lens quality of this camera. I’m not sure when I’ll next have access to Internet if we somehow end up getting lost again, so this’ll be it from me for now!

Me with my Mystery Mobile. Picture courtesy of Sloan.