If you haven’t been keeping up with the “About" page I’ve been updating throughout the past month, then that’s understandable. My name is Mazarine Blu, but “Zari” or “Maz” will do–and I’m on a roadtrip to see my good friend Rorfu Puff.

Years ago, I told Rorfu that I would make it a point to get back in touch with her after acquiring my dream van. It’s incredibly important that I do; she was always one of the only 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.

So! I started the year by embarking on this 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 (I’d be honored to be a mixture of Ted, Thelma, and Booby Blu herself) is but one step closer to being realized.

After calling Rorfu and figuring out where she’s been, however… I’ve spent the better part of time hopelessly lost.

Rorfu was never the best with directions; I love her like kin and lived with her mother and sisters for years, so I certainly don’t mind occasionally getting turned around on my way to see her. But… there’s something innately wrong with trying to get to her current town. I can’t find any information about it online, for one. No mentions, no GPS maps–nothing. Not even Breddit can help me now.

And yet, I know REDACTED is real. Other people I’ve met on this trip are aware of it, too.

It’s bizarre how the larger world is trying to tell me that this place doesn’t exist, however.

The devil is in the details. It’s not just being unable to reach REDACTED that has me questioning everything. Though what I’m about to delve into may be hard to believe, everything I share is the truth, and as I perceive it. What would I have to gain by lying on a personal blog, anyhow?

First of all, on the day I called Rorfu and got her (vague) directions to the town, I stumbled upon a 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 Rorfu on 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 REDACTED just for this.

What’s 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 strange. It’s as if I just tasted something freezer-burnt with how sandy and cold it becomes. 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. However… 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!

Picture courtesy of Sloan.

Now all I need is a blue-footed booby who specializes in making booby traps. (There can only be one Booby Blu, though.)