Dark basement.
Heavy breathing.
The grainy shuffle of feet on a cement floor. Edgy fingers tapping a table's rough surface. The reek of things moist and damp.
Somewhere upstairs a clock chimes. A useless breeze sweeps a single candle's flame.
A hand moves to a small tape-recorder, sitting on the table top.
One hesitant finger seeks out the record button. Presses it.
Ten seconds of deep, labored breaths. Then, a voice.
"Please allow me to begin by stating that it is in my opinion the incredible story I am about to record can only be efficiently portrayed through the medium of talk, that although I have recorded a series of handwritten pages discussing the events that have taken place here at 17 Harlan Road—my home, if you will, although I can hardly call it home despite the fact I still reside here—I feel the unparalleled circumstances must be chronicled in my own jaded voice, on these very tapes you are listening to.
"If you, the unassuming discoverer and perhaps listener of these tapes should feel so inclined to review these recordings to the very end—it is my assumption that given the complex story I have to tell, there will indeed be more than a few hours of audio to consider. I will therefore mark the sides of each cassette with those corresponding numbers indicating the order to which these tapes should be assessed. Of course, the tape you are listening to at this moment will be marked 'number one', with a sidenote of 'play first'. It is my obvious presumption that you have already ascertained this elementary detail. The other side will be marked with the numeral 'two', and subsequent tapes will be noted with ascending numbers on their sides relating the order of which they have been recorded and should be listened to. Of course you, discoverer of these tapes, will unquestionably be capable to figure these simplistic tidbits out—after all, men of years past have been able to decipher the intricate hieroglyphs on the walls of the Pyramids; it is of no question then that you shall assume the correct order to which they must be reviewed—still it is my strong desire to spell out every detail of my experience while living here at 17 Harlan Road in an effort not only to annotate my predicament to the fullest extent, but to also demonstrate my lucidity so that you will not reject these recorded ramblings as those of a man whose mind has been steered towards utter madness. I am a sane man, and the story I am to tell is nothing less than the absolute truth.
