To whoever finds this journal and looks through these pages, I beg of you to help me. I do not know how I came to be here. I fear for my life. Help me.
My name is Benjamin Johnson. I was attending a party when I found need to relieve myself. After excusing myself from the guests, I made my way through the hallways of my cousin's home and came upon an ornately carved which I had never before encountered. Curiosity soon seized me, and I opened the door and stepped through it.
What I found beyond it was a large city of wooden homes and cobblestone streets. Gaslights burned within their lampposts and illuminated the night. As I walked through these streets, I soon became aware of an oddly foreboding feeling. Slowly, I began to sink deeper and deeper into dread. For you see, there were no people in this city. Try as I might, I could find no signs of life.
I walked until the sun began to rise, and I suddenly found myself face to face with another door, identical to the one which had taken me to this city. I stepped through it and found myself within a strange room.
The walls are made from a material which I cannot recognize, but which is solid and white. A window shows on one wall, which reveals a sea of oddly shaped structures which seem almost to be made of glass. There is a wooden desk against one wall, with a stack of papers and a typewriter resting upon it, and on the opposite side of the room is a small bed.
The door vanished as soon as I stepped through it, and I am now trapped in this room.
And so I have little to do but write this journal.
Earlier I asked that whoever found this journal help me, but now I realize the foolishness of that notion.
By the time anyone reads this, I will most likely be dead.