The Sanctuary

6. To Whom It May Concern - 001

     I'm surprised to find a blank page at all in this thick journal. With how painstakingly and obviously particular the original Author was, it seems beyond strange that this page has been left void of language, and of warning. It would be impossible to rule out simple human error, but from what I've read, he doesn't do things that are uncalculated, or imperfect. This was intentional, and despite the paranoid voice in the back of my head, I can't shake the deep feeling in my chest that I am meant to be writing these words. That I never had a choice.

     As far as I've managed to keep track, it's been two days since I passed through The Gate. Then again, I'm not sure anything is certain here, not even the past. This book is my only tether and if I'm being honest, it's the only reason I've lived long enough to write this letter to you. Even if I'd been lucky enough to keep my calm through the long journey here, I'm sure the Hostess would have enjoyed my eternal company. I always was bad at reading social cues.

     The sun is setting now on what was likely another relatively simple day in The Sanctuary. I haven't seen more than a few of the things outlined in this encyclopedia of peril, but I'm sure that won't last long. If it sent a barrage of threats after every newcomer, none would survive long enough to become seasoned competitors. It's a perverted realm, obsessed with terror and showmanship, and with every second that passes, I am only reminded of exactly why you were so hopelessly drawn to it.

     I miss you so much.

     There is no plan in my movements; I have no sense of direction in our world, let alone in an ever-shifting one. My path of exploration is a model of guesswork, wandering from landmark to landmark, reading from the guidebook as often as I can. The instructions are clear, the handwriting immaculate, and all I can do is continue to prepare myself as I stumble towards a destination beyond any map. There is something here that I am meant to do, and even I have no idea what it is. Unfortunately, if I want answers, The Sanctuary is going to make me fight for them. And as of right now, it looks like I'll be fighting alone.

     I haven't seen another human being since I arrived here. The Hostess doesn't count; she may have looked human but her smile told the terrifying truth she existed to hide. I have not encountered any of the creatures called the Forgiven, nor any of the other human-esque horrors that his words describe throughout this book. I have only had myself for company, and I have seen absolutely no signs of other travellers on my journey, begging the question: is the Author still alive?

     I'm not a trusting person. You know that well enough. It took me months to let my guard down around you, and even that was a miracle in itself. If I had any other choice, I wouldn't be putting my life into the hands of this book, and the mysterious pen that graced its pages long ago. But I opened my eyes in the void and it was there, as it somehow always had been, gripped tightly in my hands as the cover shimmered in the absence of light. So far, it has helped me survive in this dimension but it says something about the quality of the advice given if the Author himself fell victim to The Sanctuary's traps. What does that mean for my chances of living long enough to escape this hell? For my chances of seeing you again?

     From my observation and interpretation of his narrative thus far, there are a handful of archetypes that those bold enough to enter The Sanctuary fall into. There are the brave, the leaders, those who want to breach the divide between worlds and pave the way to exploration and some form of self-fulfillment. There are the young and naive, who only make the journey in order to follow someone they love. There are those who are more reserved, closed off to the world to make room for copious amounts of information and quick-thinking, simultaneously chasing after and running from the dark that dwells beneath the soil. There are the reluctant individuals who never intended to land in this godforsaken plane, and who only long to leave (like yours truly). And then there is the Author. No one else is as observant, as meticulous, as careful as he is. He is the treasurer of this world's secrets and he knows them more intimately than anyone else in existence. His records, his almanac, this very book is the physical manifestation of all of his knowledge. And yet here it rests in my hands, abandoned at The Gate for whoever would pass through next. What happened to the Author to make him throw away his work? Was it desperation, or perhaps something darker? And if something did happen, what twisted terror was strong enough to best the man who seemingly knew it all?

     That's the other thing. I'd hate to come across as ungrateful, doubting the very literature that has kept me alive since the early beginning. But I've noticed something else, and as much as I try to dismiss the idea from my mind, it only buries deeper. How is it that the Author knows so much? Experience is incredible, as are the voices of others, when trying to learn in a new environment. I understand that most, if not all, of the instructions in this book come from a deep attentiveness and eagerness to learn. And somehow, the Author knows things that should be impossible to share. Knowledge of the certainty of death, of the complexities of every possible outcome in every possible scenario, and his personal guarantees that certain actions will result in a sealed fate. How does he know? How can he be certain? And perhaps most importantly, what did he do to find out?

     Looking back at what this letter has become, I'm really sorry about all of these questions. The Author doesn't interest you; you don't even know he exists. It's just so lonely, and there is so much I don't understand. You'll probably never read this anyways; the chances of me bringing you this journal without dying are intangible. I don't know what is going to happen, and I'm not sure I ever will. But for now, I have the guide, and the Author's words, no matter what horrifying monsters took part in creating them, or bringing them to me.

     Words have power in The Sanctuary. Some let it win, push you towards the inevitable insanity and forfeit your very being to the fabric of this universe. But others... others let me live. And as long as I'm alive, I will not stop looking for a way home to you.

Yours forever.