11/04/2005 - 2:43 a.m. | watch him travel

I arrived home tonight shortly after midnight to what appears to be an empty house, front door wide open. Kyle had returned, it seemed, from his luggage and gift bags and all, but he and Shelly were not in their room creating slapping noises as I had expected. It is now well after 2 (when the bars close), no one has returned, and the only remaining conclusion seems obvious:

The guitar killed them.

I am OK with this.

Well, it might not have killed them precisely as much as it absorbed their life essences into its own in order to return itself fully to our own dimension. It left me behind for some reason, perhaps out of gratitude for my shoddy repair attempt, perhaps because it will eventually need a human vessel to carry its dark cry across the universe. Or perhaps I am to be left alone with my books, only to find my glasses snap at an inopportune time, leaving me very ironically blind.

Anyway, I'm not really sure where to go next. I might paint a tiny ghost on the guitar frame, and I've already offered it a silent prayer that I will buy it some shiny new strings in supplication if only he would return my companions, but I'm awfully tired now, and there's nothing further I can think of other than drinking a little hot tea and passing out to some economics book. It should be fun. Rest in peace, lost roommates. Although I suppose your souls are now residing in a second-rate demon guitar, so I guess that's impossible.