Me.

I talked to my brother this morning, before he left for school. Showed him the paper, and asked him if it was some sort of joke. He got a look of total confusion on his face as he told me:

"You wrote that. Two nights ago. I walked by your room, and your door was open. You were scribbling away at that paper. I asked what you were doing, but you ignored me. Why? What's up?"

I got upset with him. Demanded that he tell me the truth. I even grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shook slightly. Still, he insisted it was my own work. The fear in his eyes couldn't have lied. I let him go, and I haven't seen him since.

My mind is playing tricks on me. Terrible, terrible tricks. It's affecting how I act already. I'm blaming those I live with for what I'm doing to myself. I have to remember these are just dreams. These aren't real. There is no Slender Man. There is no SHE. They can't exist...

Existence means nothing, for even that which is non-existent holds power unimaginable.

And yet I hear them singing when I sleep, "It's true, it's true, we don't exist..." Then why do I hear your voices?