Memoirs of a Cam-Girl - PART 3: Enid's Logs FILTERED

[November, 2013] THURSDAY, 28th

JoylessLushClub  – starts: 2:34pm

Client requests a private video-chat. His camera is aimed at a large flat-screen TV playing my least favorite moment from the movie “a Serbian Film.” I am almost positive this is that masked asshole again but then the client grabs the webcam and turns it to face himself, revealing a young Asian guy in what looks to be a college dorm room (either that or an exceptionally disgusting motel that had unframed Dali prints on all of the walls.)

“Isn’t that fucked up?” he asks, nodding at the TV. I tell him yeah but when you consider what the Serbian people have been through, it’s clear that the film is actually a poignant metaphor for their struggles. It’s just not something that I ever cared to watch again, if he didn’t mind.

“Oh my bad,” He says, sounding genuinely apologetic. He switches the TV off and turns back to the web-cam. “So…”

“Would you like me to take my shirt off?”

The client unbuckles his belt. “I would like the shit out of that.”

I remove my shirt and ask if he wants me to rub baby-oil on my breasts. “Hell yeah, and can we lose the panties too?”

He pulls off his own underwear and I start to apply the oil as he says, “I’m so glad there’s actually someone on here on Thanksgiving. I was SO fucking bored.”

“Right? I was worried there’d be nothing but total creeps on here today…”

“Yeah, I bet,” he says and nods. “Show me your feet.”

Ends: 2:55pm [21 mins]

[December] TUESDAY, 17

iLikeFrogs  – 8:45pm

Client requests that I “scurry around the room” while wearing nothing but my plush Pac-Man mask as he sings an acapella rendition of the Miss Pac-Man theme song, occasionally speeding up the tempo which is my cue to chase down as many ghosts as I can before time runs out.

The client imitates Pac-Man’s death-melody with pitch perfect accuracy as he climaxes.

Ends: 8:59pm [14 mins]

[January, 2014] SATURDAY, 4th

LEGION R US  – Starts: 4:00pm

The masked fuck is back.

Client sends a chat-request which reads simply “strip naked.” The familiar wording immediately tips me off and I don’t respond. He resends the request and I tell him to activate his camera first. He does so, revealing a kitten in a cardboard box. After a beat, the masked man leans into frame, holding a lit blow-torch.

The request appears in chat a third time and I quickly begin to undress. “OKAY, you sick bastard! I’m doing it.”

He switches the blow-torch off and then lifts the box containing the kitten, revealing a scarred wooden table on which the masked man then sits, balancing the box on his knees as he begins to undo his pants.

The words “COME ON, WE BOTH KNOW YOU CAN STRIP FASTER THAN THAT” appear in the chat window.

I scowl at the fucker and yank down my panties. The masked man begins to masturbate as the kitten peaks its head out of the box and meows at him.

Another message appears in the chat-window: “YOU’RE SO SEXY WHEN YOU’RE DISGUSTED.”

Ends: 4:07pm [7 mins]

TUESDAY, 10th

DOCTORWHOISON1ST  – 10:42pm

Client is a regular, which is the only way I accept private video-chats anymore. The money I’m losing is a fair price if it means I don’t have to deal with that creepy masked asshole.

I open the video-chat to see the client seated behind the desk in his home-office just as always but there is something off about him. For the longest time he just sits there, forcing a smile as he stares at me.

Eventually I ask, “So what did you have in mind?”

“I’m so sorry.” He says in something slightly louder than a whisper.

“Sorry?”

“He’s here.” The web-cam pans to reveal the masked man sitting beside the client, his penis in one hand and a cattle-prod in the other. The masked man jabs the electrified prod into the client’s gut and he collapses to the ground.

The masked man stands and uses the prod to pin him to the floor. He continues shocking the client until his flesh begins to smoke and the masked man climaxes.

Ends: 10:55pm [14 mins]

That’s it. I don’t care if it means he wins. I fucking quit. It was a great job until this motherfucker but you know what? It’s not fucking worth it. I might as well go back to stripping. At least there they have bouncers to deal with these creeps.

WEDNESDAY, 11th

I wake at 10:00am and immediately double-check my alarm-clock to make sure it really says “AM.” There must be a big storm coming because the sky is so overcast right now that it looks more like 10:00pm outside.

I try to leave my apartment to go check the mail but the front door won’t open. I make sure the bolt isn’t turned and then pull on the door as hard as I can but it doesn’t budge. I hurry over to the window and raise the blinds to find a set of iron security bars mounted to the outside that weren’t there last night.

Glancing out at the complex, I see that the units across from mine also have bars on their windows and their doors have been boarded over. The building is shaped like a horseshoe with a large courtyard containing a pool and several communal picnic stations at its center. I scan the courtyard, searching for some clue as to why my apartment complex was suddenly one giant fire-hazard.

It’s so dark outside that it takes me a few moments to actually process what I’m seeing: There’s a man sitting at one of the picnic tables, his back to me. He’s staring at what looks to be some sort of abstract sculpture made out of rebar and… potato sacks? There’s a pile of something beside his chair, too. It looks like… arms. And legs. And that’s because it’s a pile of severed arms and legs.

Some of the potato sacks are twitching and I realize that the “sacks” are actually the limbless bodies of several of my neighbors who are all clearly still alive and surprisingly lucid for what are basically just heads on what looked like melted torsos. One of them, a sweet old lady named Linda, spots me in the window and her mouth falls open.

Linda frantically shakes her head and mouths something at me, which prompts the guy seated at the table to turn and follow her gaze up to my window. With the hand he isn’t using to pleasure himself, the man in the black mask gives me a casual wave and shouts, “Don’t worry; we didn’t forget about you!”

As I back away from the window, I finally register the series of strange noises coming from somewhere inside my apartment and growing louder by the second. Ugh, that SOUND! Like a bunch of dogs gnawing on rawhide… It’s at this moment that I finally realize the noise isn’t coming from inside the apartment. It’s coming from inside the walls.

I grab my laptop and phone and barricade myself inside the walk-in closet in my bedroom. Of course, I’m not getting any cell reception and the internet has mysteriously stopped working. The gnawing sound is so loud now that I can’t even hear my own panicked breathing. Plus, I’m pretty sure I just saw something move in the vent at the back of the closet, so it’s safe to assume that this will probably be my final entry.

There’s an old desktop computer from high-school in here that I’m going to copy this hard-drive onto just in case something happens to my laptop. If you somehow find these logs and read this far, let me leave you with a warning: I’m pretty sure you’re fucked.

See I have this theory that, like most truly evil things, the masked man’s power is derived from the fear he causes. Which means simply knowing that he exists is like painting a target on your back. It gives him a way to find you. Those poor dismembered bastards outside? They all have one thing in common. At some point, I had mentioned the masked man to each of them.

If my theory ends up panning out, then I am seriously sorry. I wasn’t looking to ruin anyone’s life but I also don’t wanna end up a limbless sack-person trapped inside some sick freak’s erotic fantasy. Honestly, I was about to delete the entire folder but then he promised to make it quick and painless for me if I didn’t. How awesome is that? Once you get to know him, he’s actually a pretty nice guy.

He says my writing is vital to the cause and now I guess we both know why. If you value the people in your life, you won’t share a word of this with them. And it should go without saying but whatever you do, DEFINITELY don’t post any of it on the internet. I mean, could you imagine?

I clicked “SELECT ALL” and was debating whether to copy the text and post it on here or simply hit backspace and be done with it, once and for all, when I noticed something at the bottom of the last entry. A line of white text that hadn’t been visible until I highlighted the document; it was two sets of numbers. Coordinates. Followed by a question:

ARE YOU COMING?

I’m currently about 20 miles from my destination, using the free wifi at a truck-stop that is also a combination Pizza Hut/Taco Bell (yes, like the song) outside of some town where most of the male population seems to be allergic to shirt sleeves and the main export is A&E reality-shows.

I was going to drive straight there until I started scanning through the radio stations, desperate for any kind of distraction from the foreboding silence, and Alice’s voice suddenly cut through the static. “Can you hear me, baby? It’s okay… I’m fine. Really. It’s not so bad here. I know about everything with you and Enid and I’m not mad. I understand.”

There was a muffled whimper, followed by a sniffle. She was crying.

“What we had was great but things change. People change. There will always be a place for you in my heart but you have to let me go. Okay? You’re only going to make things worse… You always do.”

I had turned the volume up to hear Alice and when the static suddenly cut back in, it startled me so much that I nearly swerved off the road. It’s going to take more than that to stop me though. I’m about to finish this post, maybe have a steak quesadilla. Then I’m gonna go save my girlfriend and kill some fucking monsters. On a related note, if this is my last update on the story, just assume that’s exactly what happened.