Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-32158652-20190117062822

I have spent the last two days working on this mammoth of a first draft. I would greatly appreciate any feedback I receive. I've been thinking about this story for about four years now, so it feel amazing to finally get it written.

---

The Odd Tale of Jim Olivine

The following are transcripts from the personal audio log of Jim Olivine of Elysium Estates. Mr. Olivine kept a handheld recording device on his person at all times, making observations throughout his day on a range of topics from his thoughts on the evening news to his opinion of the Super Tasty Value Menu at the local Chuck 'N' Cluck franchisee.

The narrative you are about to read was compiled from selected recordings dated between April of 2018 to July of the same year.

–

April 30, 2018

2:30 PM

I hope the Realtor arrives soon. I have been sitting outside of this house for over half an hour. I do believe she said two o'clock was the time of our appointment. Why, then, am I still waiting for her? Etiquette dictates that one should make a simple courtesy call if one is going to be late for a scheduled meeting.

I have other things to do today. My time is important to me. I keep to a strict itinerary. It helps me to keep my life organized. Her inability to keep to a timetable has resulted in my timetable being thrown off. I was planning to spend precisely one hour this afternoon reading Ellery Queen at the library. Now it appears –

[There is the sound of an approaching vehicle and a brief honk of a car horn]

It seems that she has finally arrived. I hope she senses my displeasure. I hope my body language tells her everything she needs to know without necessitating a confrontation.

I don't like being confrontational.

Jim Olivine signing off.

[Click]

April 30, 2018

3:00 PM

The Realtor was most apologetic for her tardiness. She explained to me that her previous appointment ran long and that a mishap had rendered her phone broken and unusable. She retrieved it from her handbag and, indeed, it was a complete loss.

Considering the circumstances, I decided to forgive the disruption of my itinerary and carried on as though nothing had happened. She showed me the house, going through a sales pitch about original woodwork. I told her there was no reason to try so hard. I had decided to make an offer upon seeing the listing on the internet, and the tour was mostly a formality. Since everything I'd seen matched the pictures and there didn't seem to be any signs of black mold or termite damage, I wanted the place as soon as possible.

"If I were to make an offer today,” I asked, “how soon should I expect to hear back from the property owner? I need to plan accordingly.”

She told me that if there were no counter bids from other interested parties and the property owner accepted my offer, I could expect to hear back from her by the end of the week.

Let us hope that she is correct.

Jim Olivine signing off.

[Click]

May 3, 2018

5:00 PM

This home is everything for which I have been searching. I require a great deal of precision and practicality to function. My doctor tells me that I should take the medication which he has prescribed and that I should take steps to learn to deal with the unpredictability of the world around me. He doesn't understand how difficult that is for me. I'm sure that he thinks he does. With all of his years of schooling and all of those framed degrees that adorn the walls of his office, I'm sure he feels fully equipped to empathize with and understand anyone who reclines upon his couch.

Unfortunately, this is a common misconception amongst those with the highest levels of education. They feel that they are wiser and more perceptive than the rest of us, that they can identify things that those of us who are not graced with as many higher learning certifications could never hope to see.

This is blind arrogance.

My doctor doesn't understand how much my schedules and my routines and my practicality mean to me. He asked me if my desire to move from the hectic inner city to a quiet and gated subdivision was going to be a crutch. He said that, again, that I need to learn to deal with people as they are. Life isn't something that can be planned down to the most minute detail, he told me.

“Buying your own home can be a wonderful thing,” he said. “In fact, people your age should look into making the transition from renting to buying. However, you need to understand that life will always throw curve balls at us. Things will happen that we can't possibly plan for. That will be true no matter where you live.”

I need this. I need the quiet. I need the structure. The triple locks on my apartment door give me a certain feeling of security, but they don't block out the sounds. When the neighbors begin playing terrible rock music from 1983 or their kids start making noise or they engage in coitus... I hear all of it. Every last bit. It is unnerving. It shatters the peace of my little world. It feels like, somehow, the chaos of the outside has made its way past the locks on my door and has invaded my space.

There will be no such madness in Elysium Estates. The Home Owner's Association there has strict policies on noise. They have strict policies on everything, including visits by the police. Causing a disturbance that merits police involvement carries with it a great number of hefty fines. According to the HOA bylaws, each of those fines can and will be the maximum amount they are allowed to impose by law. These rules are designed to keep undesirable people with violent or unstable tendencies out of the neighborhood and to drive out those who fail to take the hint before they sign the contract.

It's one of the things that drew me to the neighborhood in the first place. There has never been a reported act of violence in Elysium's fifteen year history. Not one call to the police for domestic violence. Not one person arrested for disorderly conduct. Not one child initiated into a gang or caught defacing a bench or piece of playground equipment.

It's sane. It's controlled.

It's everything I need.

In short, it is perfect.

Jim Olivine signing off.

[Click]

June 11, 2018

2:00 PM

At precisely 12:05 PM today, I unlocked the front door of my new home for the first time. It was like a great burden rolling off of my shoulders. To stand in the entryway, to take it all in and know that, for the first time in my life, I have a controlled space that is entirely mine, was more therapeutic than all the sessions I've attended with that quack of a doctor over the last five years. For the first time, it felt like the outside world couldn't get in.

Of course, I will be changing the locks. I can't be sure that copies of the keys weren't made before they changed hands. I'll also be adding new ones as well as the best home security system money can buy. This place will be my sanctuary, a fortress of isolation and routine.

I dare not call it a “fortress of solitude” because I'm not from the planet Krypton.

[Here there is the sound of snorting laughter.]

Look at me, making jokes! That never happens. I think things might actually get better for me from here on out.

Jim Olivine signing off.

[Click]

June 14, 2018

5:30 PM

Today was a productive day. There are only a few boxes remaining at my prior residence, which I will collect tomorrow. I refuse to hire a moving company because I will not tolerate another person, even a hired hand toting boxes, stepping through the front door. This means that I will need to tote the new washer and dryer set to the basement when it arrives tomorrow. This is not a problem. Despite what some may think of me, I am by no means helpless. I know how to properly utilize a dolly and a tow strap. I don't need anyone's help.

That being said, the basement required a thorough cleaning to prepare it for my new appliances. It had suffered from severe neglect over the years and there was a sickening amount of dust and grime on every surface. There were some boxes tucked away in a corner that held some old paperback books. I glanced through them, but found nothing that piqued my interest. Not that I would have kept any of them even if they had. Those books were the forgotten possessions of someone else, and I could not have even the slightest trace of another person within my private space.

I hauled the books out to where the trash cans sat by the curb and dumped the contents inside. Then I broke the box down, carefully folded it and placed it on top of the books. The Home Owner's Association here has strict policies on garbage. All waste must be contained inside the can. No garbage is allowed next to or on top of them.

After finishing this chore, I locked up the house and went out. I am now sitting at the local steakhouse, trying to decide if I want a baked potato or a salad as a side. The waitress is doing her best to hide her annoyance. I can tell she doesn't like me, especially since I brought my own set of plastic utensils and told her to take her foul disease-ridden silverware back to the depths of hell from whence it came.

There will be a better tip if she doesn't let her temper get the best of her.

[A faint voice asks Mr. Olivine if he is ready to order or if he'd like more time.]

We shall see.

Jim Olivine signing off.

[Mr. Olivine can be heard asking the waitress if a substitution of french fries will come at an added cost.]

[Click]

June 16, 2018

9:00 AM

First entry of the day. I am so glad that the moving process is over. The house is set up just as I want it to be, the new furniture and appliances have all arrived and, to my great satisfaction, the entire house has been purged of any and all things from the outside. There are no traces that anyone else ever lived here.

This neighborhood is everything I expected it to be. People leave for work at the same time every day and return at the same time every evening. When the sun goes down, people retreat inside and lock the doors. They eat dinner, watch The Tonight Show and go to bed. They sleep in peace knowing that their security systems and constant police presence keep them from harm.

There is no chaos here. Only sanity.

Breakfast this morning will be poached eggs with no salt, dry toast and orange juice. After this meal is consumed, I will spend the rest of the morning in my office. At precisely noon, I will emerge to cook a lunch of--

[Here there is the sound of multiple locks being disengaged and a door being opened.]

Oh, my God.

[A sound of a door slamming and locks being rapidly secured.]

I don't understand. It can't be. Not in the suburbs. Not here. Not in this controlled place. Not this land of The Tonight Show and microwaveable dinners and Leave it to Beaver!

Normalcy!

[Wheezing can be heard.]

Sanity!

RATIONALITY!!

[The wheezing grows worse.]

I have to calm down. Have to compose myself. Can't let this get to me. But how can it be? This is--

[Click]

June 16, 2018

9:21 AM

I spent the better part of ten minutes breathing into a sack and trying to slow my heart rate. Now that I have regained control, I am daring to peek through the curtains of my front window to verify that what I saw wasn't some hallucination.

[It is clear from the hushed tones that Mr. Olivine is trying to be as quiet as possible.]

It was not. My neighbor-- I-- He's outside watering his lawn, but he's dressed like a clown! Sweet merciful Christ. Why is he dressed like that? He has a large, multicolored wig, floppy shoes, and a purple suit with green fuzzball buttons. There is a sunflower on his lapel. No doubt it is the kind that shoots water at anyone foolish enough to bend down and attempt to sniff it. There are absurdly large white gloves on each of his hands.

[Here there are sounds of Mr. Olivine attempting to duck out of sight]

He saw me! He saw me! He actually waved at me! Oh-- oh no--

[The rest of the entry is nothing but deep, ragged breathing.]

[Click]

June 16, 2018

9:31 AM

I don't understand how this can be. It was my understanding that Elysium was a place of order. Its reputation seemed to be one of safety and normalcy. Did I not mention in my May 3 entry that this neighborhood has not, in its entire history, had one disturbance or arrest?

I need that kind of place. I need that Leave it to Beaver white bread piece of Americana. My... my condition will not permit that which is not practical. I left the apartment because of the chaos. The children. The music. The coitus. There were times that I would hear people fighting at two or three in the morning. Once there was the sound of breaking glass and some man calling someone else a stupid bitch.

Am I to believe that such randomness and chaos could exist here? Here?

It shouldn't, but...

The clown.

I recall with a bitter and unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach the words of my doctor: “You need to understand that life will always throw curve balls at us. Things will happen that we can't possibly plan for. That will be true no matter where you live.” I had scoffed at the idea. I had thought it absurd that such unpredictability would follow me here. But...

The clown.

What am I to do? I cannot simply walk outside and demand he take off that ridiculous outfit. I cannot call the police. He is, after all, not breaking any rules. I have read the HOA contract many times. I have gone over the bylaws until they are seared into my memory as if by a branding iron. I felt it my duty to know the rules so as to not break them. There is not one rule against dressing like a... like a freak!

The feeling of being secure is slipping away. That weight that lifted off of my shoulders upon entering this house for the first time has started to return. If I do not take some action, everything I have worked for will be ruined.

Jim Olivine signing off.

[Click]

June 30, 2018

4:03PM

It has been two weeks. Two weeks since I first saw the clown. Perhaps if it had been an isolated incident, I might have been able to let it go. I could have shrugged it off as circumstantial. Perhaps he worked part time as a party clown, and he had a gig that he had to play. He'd gotten dressed up and was doing nothing more than giving his lawn a final watering before heading off to perform.

That would have been an easy and acceptable explanation if I hadn't seen him multiple times since then. He goes to collect his mail dressed as a clown. He weeds his garden dressed as a clown. He pushes his mower in full clown regalia. There is not a single task too mundane for the clown outfit.

It unnerves me. I can't read. I can't sleep. I can barely eat. It is difficult to work, though I force myself to do so because I have mortgage payments to make. I always feel his eyes upon me no matter where I am, even in the privacy of my bathroom. When I see him outside, he always seems to be staring directly at my house. Standing in that absurd costume, watching my house like a “Big Top” guard dog.

Is that simply a product of my own paranoia? Does he watch my house or does it seem that way? Does he only turn to look at my house when he sees ''me? ''I don't know. The only thing I am certain of is that every time we make eye contact, he waves at me. Like we're old friends or something.

I'm afraid. In my own home, in my sanctuary, I am afraid. This fear makes me angry. I should not have to feel this way. No here. I know I should go out and confront him, but... Well, I've stated in the past that I don't like confrontations. Besides, it might be nothing. He seems amicable enough. He hasn't done anything hostile. Yet. He might be weird, but he does not appear to be dangerous.

So why do I feel such fear?

Why do I feel eyes upon me all the time?

I have considered calling the police, but it would be a waste of time. Law enforcement cannot take action based upon a ''hunch. Just because someone thinks ''that one of their neighbors might be dangerous does not mean that they are. If I were to call them, they might show up to ask him some questions. They might mention that there were some “concerned neighbors” who wanted them to look into the situation, but they would not make an arrest. This might be enough to actually make him dangerous.

He might take offense.

He might decide that I needed to be taught a lesson.

I don't... I don't know what to do.

Jim Olivine... signing off.

[Click]

July 3, 2018

2:36 AM

[The entirety of this log is spoken in hushed tones.]

What the living Christ?

I got up to use the bathroom and I saw him, standing on the sidewalk in front of his house. He's out there now. I have the lights off so he doesn't see me. He's slowly pulling an endless line of multicolored handkerchiefs from his sleeve. It's not a goofy, slapstick kind of a motion. The way he's doing it... it seems so menacing. Like he's trying to intimidate me.

He's...

[There is a faint, almost inaudible squeaking noise.]

He's stopped pulling the line from his sleeve. He's using the same slow, menacing movements and he's honking the big red nose on his face. Can you hear it?

[Several slow, faint squeaks.]

What in God's name is he doing out there?

[Click]

July 3, 2018

10:36 AM

After last night, I have finally decided I've had enough. I don't like confrontations, and I'm more scared than I've ever been in my life, but I'm going to put the recorder in my shirt pocket and I'm going to confront him. He's out there right now, trimming his hedges in that stupid outfit. Why is he even here on a Tuesday morning? Shouldn't he be at work? Or at the circus?

Freak.

I can't take this anymore.

[''There is a sound of the recorder being slipped into a pocket. This is followed by sounds of locks disengaging and a door opening. After forty-three seconds, we hear Mr. Olivine call out to his neighbor.'']

“Excuse me! Sir!”

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't play the ignorance card with me, sir. You've been walking around in that stupid clown getup for weeks, staring at my house. Last night, you were standing on the sidewalk at two thirty in the morning, pulling handkerchiefs from your sleeve and honking your absurd red nose.”

“There's no reason to be rude or aggressive. I've done you no harm. If anything, I've been a damn good neighbor to you.”

“A good neighbor, you say? You're scaring the shit out of me, sir! And you can't tell me that little early morning circus act was a friendly gesture. It was a threatening move meant to intimidate! And put that rubber chicken back in your pocket!”

“Are you some kind of a nut or something? Please return to your side of the street and don't come back over here if you're going to shout and make a scene. That isn't the kind of neighborhood we keep. There has never been an arrest in the entire history of this subdivision. I trust you know why. Please don't disgrace yourself by becoming the first.”

[After some distorted audio, there is the sound of the door opening and closing, followed by the now-familiar locks.]

I don't believe this. Was I just called a nut by a man who spends his life dressed as a clown?

It would be ironically funny if it wasn't so infuriating.

Jim Olivine signing off.

[Click]

July 3, 2018

10:56 AM

The neighbors have emerged from their houses and are all conversing with Bozo over there. The conversation seems heated. He keeps gesturing towards me. The neighbors have looked over here and back at him several times. Some are blatantly staring in my direction. I can't tell who's side they're on. The clown is gesturing wildly. One middle-aged fellow crosses his arms and shakes his head. A woman next to him, I'd guess his wife, shakes her head as well and says something with a frown. The clown gets angry.

Now it's a full-blown argument. I see a nervous little greasy-haired man has emerged from the house immediately to the right of mine and is observing the commotion from the safety of his front gate.

Now the lady is shaking her finger at the clown.

The clown honks his nose at her and storms off in a huff. I'm assuming that a nose honk is the clown equivalent of a middle finger.

The neighbors are conversing amongst themselves. Greasy Hair has timidly joined them. He makes his way up to the lady and asks her a question. He repeatedly runs his fingers through his foul mane. The group turns to look at him and their mentality shifts in an instant. They are no longer an angry mob, but a group of warm and friendly neighbors. They speak kindly to him. The lady's presumed husband puts a hand on his shoulder.

I can best describe the way they're speaking to Greasy as similar to the way parents will speak to a child who swears he has seen a monster under his bed or in his closet.

Now they're dispersing. Angry Man, his wife and Greasy are making their way to my house. I suppose they wish to discuss this debacle with me.

I will continue this log once this mess has been settled.

Jim Olivine signing off.

[Click]

July 3, 2018

11:57 PM

Angry Man turned out to be a fellow named Andrew Pilate. He introduced himself and his wife Francine and apologized for the trouble.

“We've never seen him like that before,” Andrew said. “He's lived on this street for close to a decade and has never acted strangely or caused any problems.”

“What do you suppose triggered this behavior?” I asked them.

Greasy spoke up from where he was standing behind them, looking at his feet.

“He's a f-freak.”

“Now, now, Claude,” Francine chided. “Calling people names won't help anything.”

Returning her attention to me, she said:

“This is Claude. He's had a rough time of it since his mother died about two years ago--”

“Two years, f-five months, th-three days, f-four hours a-and f-fifty-eight minutes,” Claude cut in. His fingers went through his hair again. “She d-died in th-this house. Cl-Claude misses her.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said.

“It w-was h-hers.”

“Again, I'm sorry.”

“You see?” Francine said with a good-natured shrug of her shoulders. “Everyone on the street has kind of adopted him in one way or another. Some of us call him a nephew, some of us call him a brother and some of us call him a son.”

She ruffled his foul hair like one would do to a small child. A child who had doused his head in Crisco.

“E-except M-Mr. Gosling,” Claude said, casting a nervous look over his should at the clown's house. “Mr. Gosling d-doesn't like Claude.”

“Yes, well,” Andrew said, “just give him a wide berth. As for you, Mister....?”

“Olivine. Jim Olivine.”

He offered a hand and I accepted it, trying not to grimace as I did so. Even after washing my hands in scalding hot water for ten minutes prior to making this recording, they still feel dirty.

“Pleasure,” he said. “Mr. Gosling won't be bothering you anymore, Mr. Olivine.”

“How can you be certain?” I asked.

“We made our position on the matter quite clear,” Francine said.

“After paying his mortgage and his alimony, Mr. Gosling is barely able to pay his HOA dues each month,” Andrew said. “If this little joke of his continues, law enforcement will be brought in to settle the matter and, well, the penalties would destroy him.”

“It's n-not funny,” Claude said.

“No, it isn't,” Francine said. “Claude here corroborated your story, Mr. Olivine. Actually, it was more like you corroborated ''his. ''He came to us earlier today and told us that he'd gotten up for a drink of water in the early hours of the morning and saw Mr. Gosling outside in his clown outfit. At first, we thought he might have had a vivid nightmare, but then--”

“He th-threatened you,” Claude cut in, not taking his eyes from his shoes. “Cl-Claude heard him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Claude...” Francine warned. She had clearly intended to avoid this subject, but I was having none of that.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “How did he threaten me?”

Andrew and Francine exchanged an uneasy glance.

“You may as well tell him,” Francine said after an awkward moment.

“First of all,” Andrew said with a sigh, “it's nothing to be concerned about.”

“I'll be the judge of that,” I replied.

“Of course,” Andrew said. “Well, when we told him that he needed to stop masquerading as a clown, he became quite heated. He said that he wasn't breaking any laws, but I pointed out that at least two people had seen his behavior this morning as blatant intimidation, which is very much against the law.”

He paused, selecting his words carefully and trying not to say something that would escalate the situation.

“When it became clear to him that his neighbors were not going to tolerate this freakishly weird behavior, he said something vague that could... be interpreted as a threat without being so blunt that he could be arrested for it.”

“Which was?”

“He said, and I quote, 'If he knew what was good for him, he would have left well enough alone.'”

I fear that I have angered a dangerous man.

Jim Olivine signing off.

[Click]

July 3, 2018

8:58 PM

I have triple checked my locks and my home security system three times. There has been no sign of the clown since I confronted him earlier today, but I am taking no chances. I still feel as though eyes are on me all the time. I worry that my life may be in danger.

I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight.

Perhaps I should move.

This house is no longer a sanctuary.

[Click]

July 4, 2018

9:05 AM

Received an invitation to join the neighborhood for fireworks and festivities today. Not stepping out of the house. I see him out there. He's not wearing the clown suit, but he's still there. He caught me looking out my window and made eye contact with me. His expression was one of pity, as if he were saying, “Whatever I end up doing to you, you only have yourself to blame”.

I need to leave. Just get in my car and drive away. I shouldn't stay here and wait around for him to kill me, but I will not-- WILL NOT-- be driven from my own home. I have locks and home security for a reason. My home is a fortress. I'd like to see him get in here.

Do you hear me, you lunatic? You can't get to me!

I've devised a plan, you see. Oh, and it is a marvelous piece of work. I'm going to hide knives around the house. Yes. I'll put them in the toilet tank, in the potted plants, under my mattress, in my desk drawer, in my armchair. If he manages to get all the way in the house before the police arrive, I'll have a way to defend myself regardless of where I am.

Of course, that means that he'll be able to pick up any knife that isn't completely concealed. If he happens to stumble across one, it will turn into a knife fight. I know I'll lose in a knife fight. He'll probably cheat and hit me in the face with a cream pie. That would be just like a clown.

No, no, no. This plan is no good. It has too many vulnerabilities. Now that I've spoken it out loud, I realize that I have to scrap it. I have to start from the beginning and build myself a better plan. Something that won't result in me getting creamed and then eviscerated.

Maybe I could set traps? Like Kevin in Home Alone?

No. I'd end up accidentally triggering one and hurting myself. Then I'd be easy prey.

I never thought--

What if he's listening? What if he has the house bugged with some kind of weird clown listening device? Think, Jim, think! Have you seen anything in the house that seems out of place? Something related to clowns or the circus?

If he is listening, then that means he knows. That means that I can't vocalize my plans anymore. No. I have to stay silent for the rest of the day. Can't speak. Can't--

Oh, God. What if he bugged my recorder? What if--

[Click]

[''Mr. Olivine provides no date or time stamp in this recording. However, available archives and documentation pinpoint the events at around 11:00PM. The entirety of the log is almost impossible to hear due to a loud, blaring sound that drowns out everything else. What could be extracted from the racket is reproduced here.'']

...the hell is going...

[unintelligible]

...he's come... knew he....

''[Mr. Olivine puts the recorder on a nearby table and pushes the table against the door. For the next ninety seconds, there is the sound of the table legs scraping against the hardwood mixed with the blaring of the security system.]''

…come to kill me... knew he would...

...on't let... get m...

[Click]

July 4, 2018

11:30 PM

The clown came, just as I knew he would. He used a rock to smash the back door window. He tried to reach in through the broken glass and disengage the locks, but he ended up with a deep laceration on his forearm. The wound was enough to slow him down until the police got here approximately five minutes later.

They found him trying to flee the scene while holding his endless string of handkerchiefs over his wound. He ended up tripping over them.

I knew the man was crazy. Anyone who dresses like that no doubt has serious psychological issues that need to be addressed. Well, he'll have all the time in the world to sort himself out from the undesirable side of a set of steel bars.

I had a long talk with the neighbors afterwards. They asked me if I needed anything and assured me that they were there if I ever needed to talk. We discussed how surreal the whole thing has been. I mean, from what I've been told, Mr. Gosling was a normal individual until I moved into the neighborhood. He'd always been considered an exemplary neighbor and had always been willing to work the grill during neighborhood gatherings.

No one can make sense of why he went off the deep end and began living his life as a clown, or why he felt the need to target me in particular.

What everyone found the most surprising, though, was his behavior tonight. His clown costume looked as though it had been put on in a rush: the makeup was smeared and garish; the wig was crooked and sat on his head at an angle. He hadn't even taken the time to fasten all of his green pom buttons.

“He saw an opening and he took it,” Andy said. “He figured he only had a small window of time to get in and get the job done without being noticed by any of us, so he tried to go into clown mode as fast as he could.”

“Why was it so important to him that he kill me dressed as a clown?”

“Maybe he only had the ability to kill when he wasn't being himself,” Francine suggested. “Maybe he needed to take on a persona to be evil.”

She shrugged.

I didn't say anything else. I didn't want to talk about it. I still don't, but I feel that I need to record these events while they are fresh in my mind. The sooner I have them in the logs, the sooner I can stop thinking about them and move forward with my life. I am shaken to my core. I feel that I saw the demonic tonight, and I am not close to exaggerating. When they...

[Here it sounds as though Mr. Olivine is trying not to sob]

When they were loading him in the car, he screamed at my bedroom window in a voice that was barely human. Slobber flew from his jowls and his eyes rolled like a mad horse. He said: “If they take me to jail, I swear you're gonna die! DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU'RE GONNA FUCKING DIE!!”

I'm sorry. I... I can't do this right now.

[Click]

[''The last entry starts with silence. There is no date or time stamp. There is only the hiss of the tape. At about seven seconds, a faint sound can heard. The person holding the tape recorder moves closer.]''

“Please... I beg you.”

[Mr. Olivine can be heard weeping.]

“Bad m-man. T-took Claude's m-momma's house. C-could have let th-that go.”

[''There is a sound of a blade sinking into wet meat. Mr. Olivine screams. His screams are muffled by something later discovered to be his own pillow.'']

“Claude w-would have l-let it go, but th-then you t-took momma's books and th-threw them in the trash.”

[''Another stabbing sound. Another muffled scream.'']

“M-momma collected th-those books all her l-life. B-bad man.”

“Please! I'm sorry! I didn't know!”

“D-didn't know. D-didn't ask! W-wanted to k-kill you right away, but the c-clown k-kept scaring Claude away.”

[Mr. Olivine is sobbing now.]

“D-don't like c-clowns. Bad clown. Bad clown c-caught Claude trying to get the b-bad man earlier. Claude st-stabbed the bad clown. Then the b-bad man made the bad c-clown go away. While the b-bad man talked to Cl-Claude's f-family, Cl-Claude came in and hid. Now Claude can k-kill you for d-disrespecting his momma. For t-taking her house and th-throwing away her books.”

[''There is a rustling sound as Claude puts the recorder down on the floor. Mr. Olivine continues to sob and beg for his life. Then there is a more grim sound as his throat is cut and he begins to gag and asphyxiate on his own blood. This turns into a gruesome gurgle. Then it falls silent.'']

“B-bad man is dead. B-bad clown is gone. Cl-Claude's work is done. M-momma can rest in peace.”

[Several seconds of silence.]

“Cl-Claude signing off.”

[A faint titter of laughter.]

[Click] 