The Man Who Didn't Blame the Weather
Jacob predicted every power outage for years. No one listened—until he disappeared. Now someone else has inherited his journal... and the countdown begins again.
The town blamed the power outages on the weather. Said it was just bad lines, old transformers, nothing more.
But Jacob Whitaker kept logs. Every blackout in the last six years. He mapped them, timed them, compared them to weather patterns—and found something no one else noticed.
They happened on a perfect cycle. Every 57 days, down to the second. No matter the weather.
He tried to warn people. Posted theories online. Most laughed. Some called him paranoid. But then his posts vanished. Not just deleted—erased. No cached versions. Nothing in the Wayback Machine. Like they’d never existed.
I only met him once. He showed me his journal, hand-written copies of all his data. The last page just said: “57. Next one: May 4, 2:32 AM.”
That night, I stayed up.
At exactly 2:32 AM, the power went out. My phone battery drained instantly. The house filled with a high-pitched hum that made my eyes water.
Through the window, I saw a shape—no lights, just distortion, like heat on asphalt. It hovered above the street, then darted upward faster than anything I’ve ever seen.
The next day, Jacob was gone. His house empty. Mail piling up.
I tried to tell someone. No one listened.
Until last week, when I found the same journal in my mailbox. A different name on the first page—mine.
But Jacob Whitaker kept logs. Every blackout in the last six years. He mapped them, timed them, compared them to weather patterns—and found something no one else noticed.
They happened on a perfect cycle. Every 57 days, down to the second. No matter the weather.
He tried to warn people. Posted theories online. Most laughed. Some called him paranoid. But then his posts vanished. Not just deleted—erased. No cached versions. Nothing in the Wayback Machine. Like they’d never existed.
I only met him once. He showed me his journal, hand-written copies of all his data. The last page just said: “57. Next one: May 4, 2:32 AM.”
That night, I stayed up.
At exactly 2:32 AM, the power went out. My phone battery drained instantly. The house filled with a high-pitched hum that made my eyes water.
Through the window, I saw a shape—no lights, just distortion, like heat on asphalt. It hovered above the street, then darted upward faster than anything I’ve ever seen.
The next day, Jacob was gone. His house empty. Mail piling up.
I tried to tell someone. No one listened.
Until last week, when I found the same journal in my mailbox. A different name on the first page—mine.
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