He Ties Them Up

I am the last one left.

I know that you, the reader, are most likely at the edge of your seat by now. This journal, if it remains such a thing after publication, has provided you with a wealth of information on a subject that few even know exists. You have learned by now that his name cannot be spoken without summoning him to you. What I have not yet told you is that you will also be taken if you write, type or otherwise invoke his name. Trust me, because I know it to be true. The same fate befell my fellow writers.

This journal was not written by one man. We were a secret society of college students, in a school for the orphaned and otherwise domestically challenged. It was child's play to trick the unknowing first-years into writing his name in place of us. It has not come without its price, though. There are too few who will go quietly to their fate. The screams as he dragged them away would often fill the schoolyard, and we were haunted by their protests. Eventually, we had no choice but to lock ourselves in our dormitory and work with resignation. Every time we had to write his name, we drew lots. From time to time, someone would be foolish enough to try to join us, thinking our grisly task to be some game or a new kind of drug. Instead of giving them a chance, we would merely open the window and make them take our place as the writer for a phrase or two. By the final chapter, there were only five of us, and we knew no pity. Only fear.

When he last came, I was forced to watch as my best friend was dragged away. For some reason, madness chose that moment to take me, and I fired a gun at the monster. He still took my friend, but I know him to be wounded. I can hear his ragged breathing in the hallway, but I do not hear that of my friends. As discussed in Chapter 16, nobody knows what happens after he takes you. When he stole boys from the yard, he would appear as if from nowhere, oftentimes right on their heels, and drag them through the nearest doorway. The first few times, we foolishly followed. But even when we were right on his heels, he would vanish as soon as there was something between us and him. Not so when he came for us. Ever since we locked the door, he has been here. Waiting, just waiting for the time to take another one of us. He has been very fair, only taking the one who wrote the name. Even when surrounded by the thickest crowd, he could take one of us with the utmost stealth. We cannot begin to understand how he can take them away and yet remain outside the door, and none of us has had the courage to go out there and ask him.

I have reached the end now. There is nothing more to say. It has occurred to me, as the others have slowly been taken away, that I could easily close this journal and walk away without having written his name. I could just close this book, walk past his smug face, unlock the door, mail this to the publisher, and forget all about it. But I cannot help but feel that would be selfish. I have lost all of my friends to that monster, and I know that I can never replace them. It feels like cheating, somehow, to not suffer the same fate as the others. They would call me a coward if we met in the afterlife, or if they are still alive when at last I speak his name. And somehow, I feel it was always coming to this. You cannot tell someone about him without saying his name at least once, which is more than enough. I must write the name, and allows him to take me. But before I go, one last warning. When you close this book, you will no longer be safe. Once you know his name, he is halfway through your door. You cannot run. You cannot hide. You cannot hope to track him down and kill him. There is no escape from Candle Jack. You can onl-



Say. My. Name.