Per 
August 16th, 1968
Detective Browner sat at a table, the intoxicating smell of liquor and blood filled the air like smoke to a burning home, it was almost as bad as flesh just beginning to rot, The smell was not unlike the "gifts" his "friend" had left for him the past 4 months, he took a moment to think to himself
Would ever catch the man, no the THING, whomever or what ever left the "truths" as Browner called the small bits of human his cases seemed to flow around.
No simple things anymore
Only blood and the carvings of a creature which did not value life.
Browner lifted himself from his chair, stumbled to the bathroom and emptied himself over the floor, he heaved and gagged until he was satisfied. He dragged himself out of the restroom and back into the dimly lit bar, he paid his tab, grabbed his coat and walked out of the pub.
The feeling that he was forgetting something fluttered around his murky consciousness.
"One too many" Browner thought as he unsteadily fumbled along the sidewalk.
A man barked out at him as he stumbled drunkenly down the cobblestone street,
Browner ignored him
but the man still cried out
Browner stopped
He confronted the man
"What the bloody fuck do you want"
The gruff man stood and looked at Browner then reached for something under his coat.
Barker then saw what he was and as he drew his revolver out of its holstered state, the gruff man grew into a monster which Browner knew he was, the monster reached for Browners throat.
Bang.
A gunshot
The sound echoed and ricochet of the surrounding buildings
An empty shell.
Another slain.
Browner knelt.
A man lay in front of Bowner soaked in a deep maroon, the man's hand lay under his coat stopped suddenly in a act of reaching for something and a faint grinding noise came from the corpses mouth, another victim of the monsters, Browner searched the gruff man's limp body,
He found the man's drivers license.
"Thomas Freighen"
He pulled out a wallet with a old patch with two wings on each side on it
a WWII veteran
a picture of two children fell from the wallet Browner held
The man a father of two
How could a monster take a good man like this from our world.
As he searched,
Browner found
No knife.
No gun.
No weapon.
The man was killed while reaching for a hat.
Detective Browners hat,
The one he had left at the pub.
December 26th, 1974
Browner lay alone, the grinding was still there faint but present, wherever he went it was there he couldn't flee it, recently It would come to visit bringing its secrets and such, never a good conversation, since they were always hollow sounding and never full.
It ground him to a powder.
Browner got up and went to the alley.
For It told him too.
The drill was there and so was the man.
The vibrations he felt in his hands, they never stopped, and the cries for a rescue that never came, never ceased.
He placed the drill on the man's forehead and he started.
He glanced at his hollow reflection, the grinding and the red mirror,
He peered through the red and It looked back at him.
It showed him something
The hollowness.
So empty.
He was hollow.
Everything was so empty.
He needed to have it filled.
Seek the truth.
Grasp the answers.
Hollow.
He was so…
Empty.
Filling, he found it draining other things, he pushed a hole into his cup and watched the water bleed out through the gap he had created in the paper.
A silly thing it was,
Being Empty
That's all anything was any more
Just…
Husks.
May 4th, 5454
Browner looked at the deep red liquid and drank.
He was filled.
The truths he wrote were true.
He was so full.
No.
THEY were so full.
It was there.
Browner wanted.
He craved.
It held the answers.
All of them.
Browner needed them.
Drilling.
Grinding.
Buzzing.
Shaking.
Screams.
Pain.
The Red.
Filling.
Part
By
Part
He withered
A month a day, a year
The soft, red colored paper Browner wrote on dripped with ink.
He never had enough space.
Only a measly five by four inch of paper
He needed more space to fill.
He wanted truth
So he wrote.
So he pulled.
But he never saw.
He never saw another monster.
They seemed to be afraid of him.
But he didn't mind.
He was drawn to the grinding and the screams.
So he came and he pulled the truth out
Then he left.
Always more.
Without it,
He and It
Were
just
H
O
L
L
O
W
