April 12th, 1947 in Dustfield, Texas
I wasn’t gonna write this down. Ain’t no point, I figured. Who’d believe a half-drunk farmer who talks to cows more than people? But been thinking about it all week, and it just won’t sit quietly in my head.
It started with a sound. Low, like thunder, but it wasn’t no storm. The sky turned this weird color greenish-blue, like when you mix oil and water. Then BAM! Something crashed in the south field. Thought maybe one of them army planes went down again. I grabbed my lantern and shotgun, just in case.
Now here’s where it get crazy.
There was this thing shiny, kind of acracked open, and humming real soft. Steam or gas or whatever hissed from it. And beside it, lying real still, was it. Not a man, not an animal either. Big eyes, skin like wet stone, and thin like a scarecrow with bones. Looked hurt. Scared, even.It looked at me. Not like a beast does, but... like it understood. I don’t know how to explain that part. We just stood there a moment. My hands were shaking I won’t lie.
Then it did the strangest thing. Reached out. Not aggressive more like, asking for help. But I, I couldn’t. I just backed up, ran like a coward. By the time I came back with Sheriff Miller, it was all gone. No ship, no body. Just scorched earth and some broken corn stalks.
The sheriff said I imagined it. Told me to get more sleep. Maybe he was right. But every time I close my eyes, I see those big dark ones lookin’ into mine. Not angry. Just disappointed.
I ain’t touched this diary in years, but something’s telling me to write it all down before I forget. Or before they make me forget.
Whoever “they” are. I don't know.
