I guess I better introduce myself: I am Sam Norton. Well, okay, "Samantha" is my full name, but I never go by it. I'll be twenty-eight this November and I am a writer by trade. And, well, I'm lost. Completely and utterly lost.
So, here's the scoop: as stories are my bread and butter (actually, I'm lucky if I can afford butter), I went out today to mail my latest yarn to Astounding Science-Fiction. Usually, I can only get one or two of my stories into Astounding in a year, so I also send my stuff to Weird Tales and Fantasy & Science Fiction. Anyway, I had my stories all bundled up and I walked into the post office and sent them all on their merry way.
Then I saw a side door. I mean, I had been to this post office lots of times, but I hadn't seen this door before. And I was curious about where it led. Did they just install it? So, my curiosity firmly peaked, I went over and inspected the door. There was no lock on it, nothing labeled "Employees Only", so I opened it.
It led to a fairly large room with completely blank walls. There was a bed on one side (very neat, the sheets all tucked in, you could bounce a quarter off of it) and in the center was a desk. It was a beautiful desk made of dark wood and in the center of the desk was this typewriter I'm using now. I mean, it looks kind of like a typewriter, but it's not; above the keys is a screen, like a television (not that I've owned one). The screen was turned to this page where I could enter these entries, like a diary. And there was a note next to the typewriter: Hider, this is your password: (password). If you hide, they shall seek.
Thinking that someone must have been staying here, I went back to the door and opened it to leave. Except where the post office used to be...wasn't. Like, while I was in the room, someone had just moved the entire post office away in wheels silently and now...now I am someplace different.
It doesn't look like any city I've been in. I keep looking out the windows, but the streets all look different, I can't keep track. I'm afraid of leaving this room now. I think it was meant for me. That's kind of crazy, isn't it?
I mean, I write stories about space aliens and flying saucers and robots and sometimes the occasional weird fantasy thing, but this...this is out of my wheelhouse. I kind of want to curl up and wish this whole thing away, but that ain't going to do anything.
This whole typewriter thing can be compressed. It can fit down so I can hold it in one hand. Maybe I should start walking? Start exploring? Can I find my way back? Man, Dorothy never had it this bad.