The following is a transcript (Published by (The) Winston Press Inc. (WPI) in 2002). Translated by Ellie Ficklestein in 2017 after the transcript's popularity among the German scientific and conspira communities. Evelyn Thumb, born in 1973, was 16 years when she died from unknown causes. Her body was found at the bottom of the Huelhurst Cliffs, the words 'Stören Sie die Dame nicht' or 'Do Not Disturb The Lady' carved into her chest. The diary entry's peculiar attributes is suspected to be the result of a mental illness, in which The Lady is referenced multiple times. Detectives suspect The Lady may have been a stalker of Ms. Thumb's, and the diary was her way of crying out for help, or signifying her eventual killer.

Others believe something else.

June 13, 1988

Hi. I would like to allow you a brief glimpse into the bizarre life of my own. After many years, my simpleton parents have succeeded in convincing me to—how do they put it?—share my feelings. Is that what they think they are? Feelings. Never mind with that. Though before we continue, I must warn thee that none of these things I experience from eve (10:00 PM) to dawn (6:30 AM) are feelings. You are probably wondering what I am talking about. That is understandable. My therapist tells me I have something called hypnagogia. Everest tells me I simply have a portal in my closet, a clean rip between the third and eleventh dimension, that allows weird, unnatural things like Everest and The Pigeous through. My parents claim to hear my sobs every other night, they hear things that claw against the door, and when they open it, see my black nails chipped and ragged.

They never believe me.

No one does.

I don't think you will either.

Shall I introduce myself? You are reading something some might consider quite private or personal. I think I might as well introduce myself. My name is Evelyn Samantha Thumb. You may call me Evelyn, or Miss Thumb (as my therapist refers to me), or Evie (as those bitter things refer to me) and Darling and Button and Susan (I am unsure where that one came from). It doesn't matter anyway. I don't think I will live to see my birthday, not with Mr. Pox across the street.

So, where should I begin?

At 6:00, I eat my dinner (Usually roast beef, maybe with some peas and carrots, and quinoa, if my father is feeling particularly upset about his weight), and finish the rest of my homework in the parlour with a cup of cinnamon tea. I retire for upstairs at around 7:45, and I feel the eyes of my parents on my back as I ascend the creaky staircase (more on that later). I shower beneath a rush of cold water, hoping it might numb my skin for the next 12 hours, but knowing it will be absolutely useless. I put on my nightgown (let's say it is my favourite—and also The Lady's: lavender with little frills around the collar and embroidered floral swirls on its long, drafty skirt, and sheer sleeves). I brush my teeth and my hair, and braid and pin the dark, dyed waves into a crown around my head (so it cannot be pulled), and there is the usual smoky kiss of improperly washed goth makeup. I ensure all six lamps are secured in their sockets, and the heavy padlock on the closet is snapped tight, as well as the double-sided lock on the window. It is all a ritual, I suppose, as I shuffle around in my emo-Minnie Mouse slippers, like a technician inspecting the equipment of a building's structure. Will it hold? Or will tonight be the night all hell breaks free?

Before I climb into bed, I take out the little weights and press them onto the stack of books and papers at my desk, and fluff the pillows on the worn armchair for Everest, placing a glass of his precious drink (crushed almond shells, loose soil from the backyard, cat-hair, minty toothpaste, and a few drops of rum from a small stolen bottle I keep in the dresser) on the little table beside it. By now, it is around 9:30, so I take out my goggles and put them on the wooden nightstand (which has little pink flowers I hand-painted on last summer) and check the chipped plastic green FirstAid box (which I also hand-painted last summer, after The Lady in The Blue Dress's terror at seeing it, which had resulted in a mass infestation of large black cockroaches) in the musty drawer. I turn off the main light from a switch right over my bed, and all of the other lights immediately flash on, one by one, from their tilted, haphazard perches on shelves and uneven floorboards and—of course—underneath the bed.

I still have a good fifteen, twenty minutes, and here my mind often yearns for my book, which is tucked neatly beneath a weight, but I fear I might fall asleep and forget to return it to its place. Besides, I suppose it is not unheard of for one of them to come early.

I do not remember when they all started coming at 10:00. The first time, I think I had been dreaming. It was a nightmare, slashing beasts and whispering shadows that brushed against my ankles, cackling as I screamed. My little, seven-year-old eyes had flashed open, and there, hovering only an inch from my face––was Pepo. I believe I had been paralyzed, a little over eleven minutes––the whole time having the most terrifying staring contest a child can have. And then, Pepo had twisted her head, grinning in her lopsided way, and quietly left the room. I had screamed and rushed to my parents, who had only assured me it was a night terror. They said it would be gone by the next night, if not by the end of the week.

Little did they know.

I close my eyes, because I find they only like to come in when they think I am sleeping. You might find this strange, as it might appear that I am inviting them in, but do you suggest I stay up the whole night? I only get a few, precious hours as is. Insomnia is a mighty beast that leers its head at me––I do not need for it to grow teeth and monstrous limbs, as well.

Though I suppose that has already happened.

There is a small squeak of the door, the whisper of something slipping through. This is probably Pepo. I feel Pepo's cherry-sweet breath on my nose, and I slowly open my eyes. Some might scream at the sight of her, but after years and years and years––I suppose she is a bit of a comforting sight.

Pepo has a bluish-grey skin. It is very dry, and peels and cracks in places. She also has oily black hair that hangs off of her head in damp strings. Though most, when they first see Pepo in all of her horrific glory––do not notice this.

Pepo has five mouths. They all sit on a vertical line of stitches that pucker their centres, and are a deep, scary red that contrasts against her chapped skin. Beneath those lips are layers of filed, pointy teeth, and when she smiles––yellow slime and viscous blood drips down from them.

Pepo has no eyes.

I wait there patiently as her lips greedily suck in air in short, ragged breaths. If I upset her, she will go on one of her rampages.

The closet door rattles against the lock.

Pepo flinches, and I hold my breath.

The lights flicker:

One.

Two.

Three.

And Pepo relaxes, falls down onto me in a pile of filthy silk, then clumsily rolls off the bed and the shadows swifty suck her beneath the nightstand with a hiss.

She'll probably want to come out and play later.

Once again, I close my eyes, wondering which side of Everest might appear tonight. Last night was the good kind, so I suppose I'll stick with that.

I hear the creak of his large body hobbling in, and the slimy cold brush of a tentacle as he huffs, "Evie, dear––would you get me my tonic? I must admit I am terribly famished."

I nod and push myself up, keeping my eyes closed as I stretch out my neck. "Yes, I put it on the side table for you."

Through his rolls of reptilian fat, Everest cannot see very well when he is seated.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. All is quiet but for the sounds of his obnoxious gurgling as he chugs the tonic, excess dripping past his droopy lips. When he is finished, he sighs in content and delicately places the glass back on the side table with a swoop of a tentacle. "Thank you, dear."

Everest comes from the fifth dimension, or so he tells me. The fifth dimension is a place of chaos and order, a prison for the most monstrous shadow beasts, which is why he is usually so tired when he arrives. When he is on his good side––or so I call it––he is gentle and thoughtful. And when he is on his bad—well. One had to be fucking terrifying to guard an inter-dimensional prison.

I look over at him, watching his tentacles lazily writhe and fly around, finally settling in little overlapping curls as he gets comfortable.

"All is well, Evie?"

"Yes, Everest."

"How is school?"

"School is alright, Everest."

"Did your math assessment go nicely?"

"I suppose so. There was a calculus question I struggled on––but your help definitely cleared it up a bit."

"You are a very smart girl, Evie. It was a pleasure."

Around this time, there might be several light taps on the window, so I go over and unlock it, waiting for the brush of a tickling breeze before refastening the two locks.

The Lady in the Blue Dress is faint in the lamplight, a spectral manifestation. She is very pretty, with porcelain skin and shiny hair and long eyelashes. She appears to be in her 30s or so, looking like something right out of a 1950s film, in which her entire body is in sepia tones except for her fabulous blue dress. Her hair is curled perfectly just under her chin, and once tried to do the same to me except her fingers kept passing through my skin to her vexation.

At this point, technically she could simply just pass right through the window, but she does this now as a symbol of politeness.

"Hello Evie!" She sings, giving a twirl of her silky skirt. Her voice is staticky, as if it were coming through a weak intercom. She stops and stares at me, eyes wide and a big smile on her face––lips stretching a little farther than a human can ever do, but to me I know she is only trying to be friendly. Her smile slowly drops as the rush of endorphins fades away. I get up in alarm before her eyes fall upon Everest. "Everest! My dear, how are you?"

"I am doing rather fine, dear. And you?"

"Wonderful!"

Everest smacks his lips. "Lovely."

Pepo peeks out from beneath the nightstand, only head and neck visible as she lolls on the floor. "Laaadddyyyy." And she slides back underneath as if being suctioned into a high-power vacuum.

By now, it is getting close to midnight, and Everest requests for me to read to him. I take out the one we are currently reading––a rather large science fiction thing he finds hilariously philosophical. The Lady perches on the edge of my bed, fiddling with her skirt as she attentively listens, and now and then there is the odd noise of Pepo, squelches and squeaks and growls.

It is impossible to keep The Lady happy for very long, and by now it only takes a little to anger her. Last night, it had been a character dying in the book. I look up in horror as her head tilts and her skin darkens like a storm. Quickly, I snap it shut, grab my goggles and leap under the bed. I hear the grumbles of Api as he slithers against the wall and up and down the bed frame, claws dragging along the wood, but he stays far away from my little light source––a plastic Frankenweenie lamp I have had since I was four.

The Lady flies around the room and the lights flicker on and off. My heart pounds as Api takes a jump toward me during a flicker, shrieking when the light snaps back on. The Lady screams and screeches, and beneath their weights the papers vibrate, threatening to fly around the room. Slime and ooze and spittle flies from her face and I tug my goggles on as Everest tries to calm her. I lay my head against the floor to avoid a slob of slime, and see the flashes of teeth as Pepo peeks out from the shadows beneath the nightstand, and I know she is watching me. I pray she and The Lady don't fall into another one of their fights.

Eventually, The Lady leaves in a rush through the window and the glass whines. I leap out from under the frame before Api can devour my toe and pull myself back on the bed, dusting my lavender nightgown off. I walk over to the window and see Mr. Pox on the other side of the road, standing in a silhouette of yellow streetlight among the dark and foggy street. He is very tall, almost as tall as the streetlight, and unnaturally thin. He wears his most preferred hat––a brown leather top hat that obscures the upper half of his face––and I sigh in relief when I see he is not dancing.

The Lady tells me she believes Mr. Pox is hopelessly in love with her.

His fingers idly twitch.

I force myself to look away as my heart thumps in my ears––seeing Mr. Pox always sends a terrible fright through me––and I look over to Everest who has fallen asleep.

I check the clock.

My eyes widen and I jump back into bed, yanking the covers over me as I still my breathing.

I hear the smallest click as the 2 flips to 3, and without peaking out from under the blanket I know what will happen.

The numbers turn from white to a searing red as they all flash 666 and the things behind the locked closet door scream and claw and the lock shrieks as it tries to contain them.

It always does.

I never know why I am so scared.

My breathing is loud and I ever so slightly shift so I can place my cold, numb hand over my lips. I see a shadow fall over the covers, and I know Mr. Pox is standing there, still and watching.

I do not know if he will ever touch or kill me. The first time he came here I had been hiding under the blanket, and I had froze for the entire time he had been there and nothing had happened. So, obviously, now I follow this routine every night, because who would be brave enough to test it and see if anything would happen?

It becomes difficult after a few minutes, as my breath and body warm up the space beneath, resulting in an uncomfortable, humid stuffiness, and I become dizzy from lack of air. After precisely 13 minutes (I always count), the shadow falls away. I dare not breath until I hear the door whisper close––waiting exactly one minute in case I had counted wrong––and then I throw the blanket off, gulping in crisp, fresh air as the sweat on my skin subsides and cools.

Everest hums and sings under his breath, and I lie there, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars and skulls, the mad scribbles of passing ghosts and haunted spirits I had been unable to clean up as well as my own attempts to ward them off with biblical texts and voodoo symbols, and the remnants of The Lady in the Blue Dress' spectral goop.

Everest has a theory that Mr. Pox is from the ninth dimension, a world of animated corpses and low gravity, which is why he is so tall.

I think he's just a creep.

I get out my pack of cards and play a few mindless games with Everest. Fhinderwaals––little albino rat-like creatures with ribs that unnaturally poke out from beneath stretched skin and black eyes scurry out of the floorboards and the cracks between the dresser drawers. They nip at my toes and chew on the long stretches of cable connecting all the lamps, and I have to scare them off with a broom. They only stay for an hour, never more than that.

It is odd, these creatures. When they are here, they adore the chaos, and yet they always stick to a very strict time schedule.

I shuffle the cards, sighing as I place them back into the packet, and help Everest up. He groans and leans on me, tentacles pressing against the floor as he brings himself to his full height. "Many thanks, Evie. Best of luck with the rest of the night."

"Thank you, Everest. See you tomorrow." I take out the key hidden beneath my least favourite shirt in the dresser and unlock the padlock. Something black and prickly snaps out but Everest lets out a growl and whips out at it with his tentacles, holding it back as he hobbles through. As soon as the last of his swampy green tentacles fades into the blackness, I slam the door shut and fix the padlock.

I grab my goggles and a flashlight, stuffing it into my messenger bag, and throw on my robe and combat boots, silver chains and chunky platforms at odds with the frilly nightgown. I apply a new layer of thick eyeliner to give me confidence and then walk through the bedroom door.

I instantly flick on my flashlight, illuminating the long, silent hallway. I should be terrified at the sight of the dusty, shadowed skeletons standing guard on either side, but I trek this journey every night, and like with everything else––it is only Mr. Pox that truly frightens me. The light of my flashlight falls upon their crooked gazes and grinning skulls. They don't move once, and though their eyes are but abysmal sockets, I feel as if they are watching me.

The sound of a little boy singing echoes through the house as I turn to the stairs, and I see The Pigeous there. At the sound of my footsteps, he turns to face me from the middle of the staircase. The Pigeous has eyes bulging out of their sockets the size of my fists, with a little elliptical black dot in the centre. His face is tiny and angular, and he has harsh and angry stitches over his mouth. He has no ears and only wisps of black hair, and ink drips from those horrendous eyes.

"Hi Evelyn." I do not know how he speaks, all I know is that it is high and creepy and I do not need to strain to hear it.

I lift my chin. "Hello. Would you let me pass?"

He leans forward eagerly, black dots never leaving my face as his own shifts hypnotically, twitching––from side to side. "If maybe for a bite of sweet flesh––"

I roll up my sleeve and hold out my arm and he climbs the stairs like a spider, fast and eagerly. As soon as he tilts his head back, where a slit in his neck reveals rows and rows of gnashing teeth, I reel my arm back and punch him square in the chin. His cries echo and build in the house as he tumbles back and I race down the stairs. Pepo waits for me there, darting between the shadows. She is anxious to go home.

We stumbled through the house, a path of strategically placed glow-in-the-dark stars directing our way. I pause for only a moment in front of The Portrait of the Mad Man. During the day, it is a simple painting of an eldritch forest, whimsical and old. If one were to squint, one might see the weird placing of trees, the gathering of shadows in certain spots.

At night, these differences become real and breathing and living, a portrait of a gaunt man with a tilted head and beady red eyes that move and flicker. I swear, whenever I near it I can feel a warm wisp of shifting air––like breath.

We continue moving through the house until we reach the front door. I hastily work the flashlight and locks, then twist the nob and dare a peak outside.

Sometimes, The Lady likes to wait out here to attack Pepo. So now, if I do not go with her outside, she will scream and wail all night, and make a terrible mess of my room.

"Alright, Pepo. It is safe." She stills and looks at me. I glance across the street at Mr. Pox, who waits on the sidewalk in that little circle of streetlight. Fog creeps mysteriously across the ground.

"I can't."

Her lips open––

I shove past her and walk outside, clinging to my flashlight and messenger bag, trembling as Mr. Pox's foot starts to tap. Pepo hums happily and zooms out the door. She turns left and fades into the night.

Mr. Pox begins to dance.

I can't help it––a whimper escapes me. I turn and dash around the side of the house.

Though The Pigeous' memory is not to supreme standards, he still needs more than an hour to forget me.

In the midst of the anguish––I drop my flashlight in my haste. "No, no, no, no, no––" My hands search the grass and flagstones, and then I clasp it and I race to the lattice.

The lattice came with the house, which my grandparents bought in the late 60s. They died when I was 8, and so my parents decided to move to the suburbs and into the house. Our old home had been a small, sad little one-story. When we moved, the creatures had followed, and seeing these two floors I had almost vomited at the terror it had given me. Bigger house meant more shadows, more places for creatures to hide and more places for me to get lost in the puddles of confusion and fear.

So when my parents had tried to sell it, I had broken into a weeklong temper tantrum of kicking and crying, a living hell that can only be produced through something that lived through a living hell every night.

They kept the lattice.

I fit my hands into the creaky old wood, kicking away the vines that had begun to quietly creep around my ankles, and climb up the panel. My hand finds the jutting roof of the first story, and I throw my leg up, rolling onto the slant as my arms search for the windowsill. I usually find it––usually––and I pull myself up. I take the key from my messenger bag, fit into the locks on the window, then pull myself through and into my room and relock the door.

When I turn around, Mr. Pox is in a full-out dance, kicking his legs, throwing out his arms merrily and spinning on his feet. It might seem like something comedic, cartoonish. If anything, he looks like a possessed marionette, strings yanking at long, bony limbs to a soundless rhythm.

I pull myself back into bed. I think this is the worst part of the night. I hear the creak of moving things throughout the house, never knowing if this is simply my imagination, a soul-less creature from another dimension––or something else. Here, I wait for almost 45 minutes. And then, when it is 6:13––

I am still, I am under the covers, mouth pressed firmly over lips, choking on my breath, eyes wide as things claw and scream at my closet door, a red light pours out underneath the covers and a shadow falls upon me.

Still––

And waiting.

13 minutes.

1 more minute for good measure.

The remaining 3 minutes are the most chaotic. It is like closing hour at the bar, and everyone knows they have to go but no one wants to, and so they gulp down as many drinks and glasses as they can before their time is up.

Things moan from downstairs, glass crashes and floors rattle. The Pigeous screams and invisible winds whip at the papers on my desk.

And just like that––it stops, and I am left with the terribly cold thought that maybe I had imagined it all.

I told you you wouldn't believe me.

Because I don't, either.