For the past few days, we’ve been followed by a black coupe. I’ve been telling Rorfu on phone calls that Sloan and I are avoiding road blocks, and this has delayed our trip considerably. I’m not sure if she buys it.

But it’s really my ‘stalker’ that I deem problematic.

The subject driving the black vehicle seems to have a feminine build and pale skin. They don a dark suit—no tie—and I can’t make out the finer details of their face. It hurts my head to look at their face for too long. I think they have brunette hair, however, and are always wearing sunglasses.

Whenever the car follows just behind us, I glance in my rear-view and focus on the one bare hand on the wheel. It doesn’t hurt to look at their hand; the steering hand—their right one—wears a ring with a large oval gemstone at its center. The gem looks about as large as the subject’s thumbnail, and this jewelry is always set on their middle finger.

For days I refrained from posting an update on our location in the event my last post tipped off this individual. Perhaps this is whoever chose to leave me a bloodied letter.

Regardless, I wanted to stop and confront this person. A part of me wondered, for a while, if being followed had more to do with Sloan than me; he was very vocal about how he didn’t want that car to catch up to us, stating that if they did send me the bloodied letter then they wanted nothing but trouble—and if they wanted nothing but trouble, then my “noodle arms”, and his “health condition” would prove we lose that fight. I then told Sloan I had a gun somewhere in my van and that I am licensed to carry, but he thought I was bluffing.

For miles upon miles, surrounded by evergreens on either side of the road, our phones had no reception.

The car continued to pursue.

We were on our own.

At the height of one of my arguments with Sloan, my temper flared. I found it pointless to keep driving when it was just my Mystery Mobile and that black coupe on the narrowing road, when I wanted answers, when I had a pistol in my glove compartment (strategically hidden beneath fast food receipts) just in case the situation escalated and a dangerous subject needed to be intimidated until proper authorities could get involved.

So I did stop and pull over.

However.

When the black car parked behind us off the side of the neverending, lonely road, my head panged like a migraine was coming on. Vision blurred. I saw blood spatter the lap of my dress, and only then did I truly register that my nose had started bleeding. I remember the sound of a car door closing far behind us and the melody of an approaching voice—an alto’s voice—singing words I couldn’t understand.

I blacked out.

…And when I woke again, Sloan was driving far over the speed limit. The road was still a straight shot between two lines of tall evergreens, and I’d been downgraded to the passenger seat with my splitting headache and bloody nose.

Sloan said that for the safety of my friend Rorfu and whoever else lives in REDACTED , it’s crucial for our stalker to never be led to the town. I’ve been made more aware of the forces that are following us now.

I won’t go into further details on these forces unless I know for a fact it won’t immediately come back to bite us. We still need to make it to the town and lose our stalker.

Now, you may be wondering what part of me thinks it’s worth posting more updates when it’s remarkably clear that nothing about my experiences will be believed, yet all of my words may be detrimental to Sloan’s safety and my own.

Perhaps it’s my coping mechanism, but I’m currently viewing this all as field experience. My dream profession will be met with skepticism, and it will be met with danger that not even law enforcement can help. If I let myself get discouraged now, then I shouldn’t hope to ever have my own career in paranormal investigations.

So long as Sloan and I are alive and well, I’d venture to say I’m lucky Rorfu lives in an anomaly.

Sloan and I have managed to lose the car in traffic on numerous occasions, making detours from the originally planned two-hour drive Sloan pitched back in Calikin. I would say we’ve driven far longer than we’ve needed to, but Sloan is quick as a navigator and seems to always know where we are regardless.

We make brief stops at gas stations. We fill up extra canisters to keep in the back of the van—and it’s gotten to the point that we take frequent turns driving. Neither of us seems to sleep much at all. (I intentionally stayed awake for the entirety of Sloan’s first shift, however, just to ensure he stayed the course. He did.)

We bicker a few times every day, too. I refuse to believe the frustration is one-sided, even if Sloan never drops his smile. And yet… Sloan has never once suggested that he’d like to leave.

Given how he took the wheel when I blacked out too, I credit him with saving our lives. I wonder what would have happened if I’d been alone.

Today, I hope that we’ve lost our stalker. The region’s been experiencing small quakes for some reason, and I’ve noticed that ever since the tremors started, we’ve seen no signs of the coupe.

Do small earthquakes leave potholes like this in the road, though?

Picture courtesy of Sloan.

We’ll have to find yet another detour; Sloan and I are on the side of the road right now since I found a spot where we finally have service. I’ve already called Rorfu to again assure her we’re still coming, and I’ll try to update again soon.