This text was found etched into a wall—the wall with the clown holding three balloons wallpaper. We believe this to be the writing of 17-year-old Willam Showalter. Showalter was a missing person case from Whitesbog, New Jersey, in 1997. 818 Corp. Entry 33.

I can never remember how I got here. Sometimes I feel like I'm close to remembering, but I can't seem to connect the dots. It's kind of like when you're trying to remember the name of an actor in a movie, and you feel like the name is on the tip of your tongue, but you can't seem to get it down. That's how I feel all the time. Since I've been here, I don't ever remember going to sleep. I'm awake, and then it feels like I'm just waking up again. No memorable period of rest. I don't feel any more rested, and I don't feel any more tired. I don't have memories anymore.

Here's what I do remember—at least, I think these are memories.

I remember something awful happening. Well, I remember feeling like something awful had just happened. Like someone died. I felt a pit in my stomach, and I wanted to cry, and I did. I don't remember starting or stopping. My eyes hurt, and my throat burned. I remember the sickening smell of this place. I remember thinking I'd never smelled anything like this before. It smelled like burnt hair, chlorine, mildew, dust, and sulfur. I quickly walked from room to room. The smell never went away. I remember thinking some rooms felt familiar. They felt safe. It felt like I had been there before.

I continued walking from room to room. Endless rooms on top of one another. Hallways upon hallways. No doors, windows, hatches, or vents. Just rooms draped in the sickly yellow light. My head started to hurt. The buzzing felt like it was getting louder. It felt like the lights were screaming at me. Everywhere, in every room, forever—overhead fluorescent lights. Piss-yellow light masking everything in a putrid yellow haze. I couldn't tell you the last time I saw another color. I miss purple. I miss red. I miss blue.

Something I do seem to remember clearly is the chair. An unremarkable chair. Like one you might find sitting in the corner of an unused room in your grandmother's house. Usually covered in old clothes or books or something like that. The first time I met the chair, I thought nothing of it, but it was the first time I saw a piece of furniture in the entire place. It was also made of wood and not yellow. I took a seat. The next thing I can recall is "snapping back." When I did, I was wearing different clothing: loose-fitting jeans with a plaid shirt and worn-out sneakers. My hands looked different. I was shorter. I couldn't move, and water had filled the room up to my ankles. The water was warm and still. I could hear the echoes of someone singing. I couldn't make out the song. I think it was a radio. It was then I felt two hands on my shoulder. I tried to scream. I tried to move. I couldn't.

In front of me, the water quickly filled the room and emptied out, and filled in and emptied out again. That repeated for a while. I don't know how long. The next thing I remember was snapping back and standing where I had stood, looking at where the chair had been. It was gone. I was me again, I think.

I kept walking the hallways. I walked and walked and walked. I didn't feel fear or dread. I walked the hallways and continue to walk the hallways. That's all there is down here. I scream until my throat burns. I throw myself against the wall. I hit my head. I can't feel anything. I don't think I can feel here. I've forgotten what that was anyway. I don't know how long it's been. I want to share some of what I saw here. Some of what I experienced. Some of what I've been thinking.

Since I began writing this, I've been visited by the chair. The chair likes when I sit. It likes to show me things. I think the chair is my friend. I like when the chair visits me.

I've had several snaps since I began writing this for you. I know you'll see it someday. I don't know where I'll be by then. Maybe I'll find a way out. I doubt it. The light is beginning to hurt again. It's screaming at me. Sometimes I scream back and then I snap. I don't know how long it's been since I last saw the chair. I don't think it likes me much anymore. The last time we sat together, I laughed at what it showed me. I think the chair is lost too.

I'm fighting myself a lot lately. It's entertaining. I think I'll leave the wall soon. I need to keep walking. I wanted to share something with you today, Wall. I heard the singing again. I know it was me. I don't remember singing. Maybe I haven't done that yet. What should I sing, Wall? I'm not the best singer, but I know I'll hear it soon, and that's nice. I'll sing about you and Chair. You're the best. Do you hear the screams? I wonder what that could be?

Wall, guess what? Chair came back. Chair showed me something new. It showed me a small man. The man was ugly and small. Not as nice as you and Chair. They told me that I'm not in trouble and that they're happy with me. They said I've been very good. Then they said they were sorry. Then I was back here. Wall, I don't want to go, but I have to now. The water doesn't flow back out anymore, and I don't feel very good. I wish you the best, Wall.

—Floor

This is the end of the written message.

818 Corp. has recovered various materials from The Greever Files. Subject in Entry 33 is believed to be alive, but whereabouts are unknown. Subject describes yellow hallways, the Chair, Stillwater, and has met with the Coordinator. During initial testing, the Coordinator was believed to be a singular program hallucination. We believe the Coordinator has actualized and is attempting to reach subjects. Research on the Coordinator is ongoing. It is imperative that the Coordinator is dissolved.

Thank you,

Maestro
"Find the Fire"