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| Wayfarer's Inn |
The terrifying event started at around five o'clock on December 23, 1989. The final traces of daylight were just peeking over the horizon, and the very cold night air was piercing. There was not the least sense of loneliness here at the Wayfarer's Inn, despite the fact that most people would find it depressing to think of spending another night away from home and the comforts of the family during the holiday season. Everyone living there seemed to be pleased in silence. Mario worked as a traveling salesperson. Not much could be said about him other than that he seemed uneasy thinking about spending Christmas by himself. This is what would lead one to believe that he is not a member of the crowd, if anything. He was the same as everyone else in the inn, save for that.
A dense, sickening fog enveloped everything in its path as it swept in from the hills. It wouldn't take long for a thick layer of white ice to cover the surrounding area. The locals were aware that they would be there for a while because there was, even in the best of circumstances, little transportation available to these remote areas. As for their own cars, which were parked in the inn's back yard, nobody with common sense would take a chance on driving in such weather.
The Wayfarer was a little inn with just 10 rooms, each of which was cozy but modest, and yet it emanated a warmth that was understandable. Tucked away in the heart of the English countryside, this hotel provided a much-needed break for weary travelers. The sight of a deserted inn, its lights flashing like a beacon to the lost, would provide much-needed relief to the tired.
Lurching on a plush leather recliner, Mario brooded over the events of the day. He had successfully accomplished his trip into Scarborough, and his business would profit greatly from his labors with a lucrative contract that would undoubtedly bring in a sizable sum of money in the upcoming year. Mario sipped on some brandy and gazed into the hearth, which was glowing reassuringly next to him. He felt a tiny tear slide down the side of his face when he thought of his family and the kids unwrapping pricey packages on Christmas morning without him; nevertheless, he wouldn't have much more time to worry about them over the following several days since he would be too busy trying to live.
He was practically dozing off in his chair at five minutes to five o'clock when a kind man approached him. A rather ordinary dude, apart from his attire. His attire was strange and out of step with current fashion. Mario stood forward and introduced himself, trying not to remark. He motioned for the resident next to him to take a seat. Mario was immediately struck by the man's cheerful appearance, which included bright cheeks and a wide smile. "I couldn't see myself going much further in that," the man said, gesturing to the miserable weather outside. "I'm just glad that I found this place when I did," he continued. The innkeeper says it will be here for some time. The man remarked, "They say it gets like this a lot around here because it's so exposed to the weather." "Oren Keller, or should I say Pilot Officer Oren Keller, DFC?" he said, extending a kind hand to Mario.
The two men took a seat, and Mario saw that his guest had chosen a peculiar manner to introduce himself. In his perspective, it was a little rare for someone to introduce themselves twice, the first time being to confirm their military status. "Perhaps he thinks I'm a military man too," he pondered.
"Come far?" the guy questioned. London, specifically Kensington. Mario answered, "I was expecting to go back home tonight, but I called the wife to say I'd find somewhere to stay for the night and be home tomorrow. I realized the fog was growing worse.
As soon as he finished speaking, uncertainty took control of him. Was it the gentleman's facial expression? Was it the extreme weather that was to blame? Did the idea of spending Christmas "alone" appeal to his subconscious in any way? He simply sensed uncertainty; no particular explanation occurred to him. Leaving the security of this location was not as appealing as the feeling of pleasure and comfort that came with being with Oren. If the fog cleared in time, he could still be able to spend Christmas Day with his family.
The two guys conversed deeply for some time, occasionally laughing and occasionally disagreeing, but overall staying cordial. It was clear that his visitor had served as a military officer in the Second World War, having begun by flying reconnaissance flights over Germany as a pilot and then joined the operation at "Arnhem" as a pilot responsible for successfully delivering the parachute drop to their target. Mario was enthralled. Stories of such bravery were frequently shown on TV, but here he was, hearing about every facet of a pilot's life in this audacious era.
"You are telling me about a time I could only be in awe of, and I haven't even been involved in the Boy Scouts," he said to Oren. "Well, Oren, here's to you," Mario continued, lifting his glass. His partner took the praise with gratitude.
It was some hours later when both males decided to end the evening. They yawned nearly simultaneously, tiredness creeping up on them without their knowledge. Neither of them knew how long they had been talking, other than to say that a few drinks had passed and that much more talking would put one or both of them to sleep where they sat.
After wishing his guest a nice night, Mario took his time getting ready. He had forgotten to check into his hotel since arriving; he was informed that it would need to be ready because he was an unexpected, but very welcome, visitor.
The man at reception seemed a little "off." The more he considered it, the more he realized that his attire was identical to that of the time period to which Oren seemed to belong. He started to scan the whole reception area, taking in everything that reminded him of the 1940s, including the telephone exchange in the corner and the photos hanging on the wall behind the clerk. The entire area suddenly seemed decorated as though it were from a bygone age, something Mario had not seen previously.
"Pardon me," he said. "It feels like I've walked into a themed hotel. Do you collect memorabilia in any way?" The clerk's perplexed expression indicated to him that there was no use in pursuing this. Mario resigned himself to thinking that maybe he wasn't the talkative sort, satisfied to look forward to a warm bed and a restful night's sleep.
Upon entering his room, he saw that the motif from downstairs continued upstairs as well, but he was too exhausted to give it any more thought. He got into the warm bed in hopes of a restful night's sleep after turning on the bedside lamp and putting on his bedclothes. He then quickly showered in the bathroom. After a short while, he fell asleep soundly, as the exhaustion from a demanding workday had caught up with him.
Mario was awakened at around two in the morning by someone tapping on his door. Waking up from a deep slumber, he strolled over to the door before his eyes finally became clear enough to turn on the lamp by his bed. When it opened, there was reason for concern when smoke was seen rising from the hallway toward the stairway. He was calling out to the person who had knocked on his door when he heard a droning noise coming from above.
The one who'd woken him up was back in a matter of minutes. He was unable to identify the voice's identity due to smoke. "You really ought to get downstairs to the lobby. We've suffered damage. Mario said in shock, "What? You say, 'We've been hit?'" No one responded. The voice had already dematerialized and was moving down the hallway, alerting the other occupants to leave their rooms. Mario made his way downstairs without incident, following the other visitors.
There was pandemonium as the inhabitants were packed into the lobby. Mario was looking for his buddy, Mr. Clement, and nobody seemed to know what was going on. He had vanished from view.
Reaching over the desk worker, he demanded answers. The cashier answered, "I can't tell you much, other than to say that we've been hit." "Hit? Affected by what? Are you saying that we've been struck? Mario repeated his request, only to have the clerk again deny him. The smoke had no explanation, and there was no damage that would support the theory that it had been "hit" by something.
When Mario was still upstairs, hurrying down the hallway in search of the stairwell, he had nearly forgotten about the droning sounds he had heard earlier. When he decided to find out if the other guests had also heard it, he was taken aback by their answer. "Those are going to be the bombers passing over." One said, "At this time of night, they're always around." One may have crashed on the way back home, according to another.
Where is it headed back to? Home is where? Mario inquired, wanting to know the whole story. Is there an aviation base of any type in the area? Is this an airplane flight path? He asked further questions, but no one had any more details to provide. They all seemed too preoccupied with themselves to address him. Just thereafter, a bloodied and rather disheveled man came inside the building. Flying goggles and a leather hat decorated his head.
Mario ignored the man's wounds, finding it quite odd that anyone would be flying on a night like today. This man had an additional strange quality about him—a familiarity he couldn't quite identify. He thought, "If memory serves me correctly, I've seen his face before." In an instant, a flurry of visitors rushed to the guy, each providing support and breaking Mario's spell of silence.
"Someone hurry up and get the man a chair. The desk clerk said, "He looks like he's been in the thick of it." Mario realized something was wrong as he stood there in shock and decided to investigate, even though it would have to wait until the morning because his first priority was the apparent accident victim's comfort.
Hurrying to the bar, Mario reached for a glass, poured some brandy into it, took a gulp, and handed the rest to the confused patient.
"It struck me suddenly and without warning. The mysterious man said, "I tried, you know, I tried." Mario was saying something that he was unable to make sense of. "Blessed man, he must be misguided," he said to himself. "He must have been shocked by whatever happened outside because he is confused." The man had gone unconscious in a matter of minutes. Attempts to revive him were unsuccessful; he was beyond recovery.
The clerk, concerned about the man's well-being, suggested that he be allowed some breathing room while he checked for a pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized the patient would probably get better with some much-needed rest. After placing the man's feet on a stool, he asked the other visitors if they had a blanket. Someone thoughtful had previously made the necessary arrangements, and it was then spread across the patient to keep him warm while he slept soundly.
The mayhem subsided gradually, and people started heading back to their rooms. Mario did the same, feeling very perplexed by what had happened. It was not the time to inquire, yet he was adamant on knowing what had transpired that evening.
Mario left the clerk to handle the mysterious man and went back to his bedroom, perplexed by the cause of the poor man's state of illness. With one last glance out his window, he tried to find anything to pique his attention, but all he saw was a white landscape surrounded by dense fog. After realizing that there was nothing more to learn that evening, he made the decision to go to bed early the next day, knowing that he would have a busy day ahead of him. Mario wished he could spend Christmas with his family back home. Even though the fog would make traveling challenging, he was committed to getting home.
It had not gotten any better for Christmas Eve weather. Actually, from the previous evening forward, they had gotten worse. Mario opened his curtains and saw that, in contrast to the previous night, visibility this morning was nearly nonexistent where he had been able to see the white carpet covering the surrounding landscape. Under these conditions, he could not possibly travel. He said to himself, "It would be incredibly stupid to set off in this."
After completing his morning rituals and getting dressed, Mario headed downstairs with the intention of calling his spouse to inform her of the hazardous circumstances and promise to try again later that day if things were better.
Mario was about to cross paths with Oren Keller, his temporary pal, on the stairway. "So, what was the purpose of last night's games and fun?" he inquired. Oren responded that he couldn't remember what Mario had asked him after looking at him blankly for a while, almost as if he hadn't met him the night before. "The crash," Mario said. A person was saved from an accident that occurred last night. Most likely, he's still downstairs right now.
He went on, "I must admit that the poor man looked in a terrible state. I guess you missed it all last night because they couldn't get you up." A lot of noise, I would say. Oren gazed at his face in blankness once more. Mario was starting to become a little nervous about his pal now. "Oren, do you remember that we met yesterday evening? It's Mario," he questioned in a perplexing way.
The aristocratic gentleman, not wanting to come off as stupid or absent-minded, acknowledged his colleague and tried not to seem foolish in response, preferring to spare unpleasantness on both sides. Naturally. Yesterday! I recall. You'll have to pardon me, of course; sometimes the memory acts up after I've had a bit too much to drink. "You're the gentleman that, um, that, um," Oren responded, tactfully masking his lack of knowledge.
Mario. Mario," he clarified. I apologize; I should have known that you had most likely just woken up. Nonsense. Not at all." Oren apologized, "Maybe we can get together in the bar later? I have to go to my room now, if you'll pardon me," he said. And Oren strode off in the right way with that. Mario was overwhelmed with bewilderment once more. He walked down the steps to the lobby, thinking to himself, "I could have sworn he didn't recognize me."
Mario found an antique booth on the far side of the reception room while looking for a phone. In a way, this didn't seem out of place, especially considering the other furnishings in the inn, but he wasn't used to it either. But all he could think about was whether he could contact his wife and let her know what was going on.
Mario eagerly dialed the phone. 01 984 7325... A voice on the other end of the telephone said, "Hello operator, which number are you calling?" Without delay, he hung up. After making two more calls to the number, he got the same answer. "Hello, what number is this, operator?" "How strange!" he cried out. He dialed again, letting the operator go on before responding to her. "Yes, please let me give London 997 03285 a call," he said.
The response was, "I'm sorry, sir, that number is not available." Who are you attempting to reach, may I ask? His tone became tense, and he panicked as he gave the operator his home address information. "I'm attempting to contact my spouse, Mrs. Jennifer... Whiterush House, Kensington, London. Susan Catherine, 99.
The operator answered right away: "Sir, I do not have that individual listed at that address. Are you certain that the address you provided me with is correct? Mario was growing increasingly frustrated with the operator's inability to find the right phone number. "I should be aware of where we reside because that's my home address. Good God, he cried back down the line, "We've been here since '66." Furious, he insisted that the operator give the number another go. She refused to accept it.
She replied sharply, "Sir, the number you wish to call does not exist, and the address you gave me does not list me as a subscriber and is not the number you have given me." When panic started to overwhelm him, he slammed down the phone so forcefully that the desk clerk, who was not amused by Mario's actions, noticed the noise. Could I just remind you, Mr., that some of our other visitors might need to use the phone? Mario answered right away.
So why am I unable to reach my wife at home when I try to call? I keep getting the message from the operator saying our address is invalid. "What's happening here?" "Perhaps the operator is unable to connect because the line is down, sir. That is sometimes the impact of the fog, leading to issues with the telegraph cables. The clerk suggested that it would be best to wait until later in the day and try again then. "Would you like anything else in the interim?" Mario remained stunned into silence, gazing at the clerk as though he'd just been told that his problem with the operator wasn't that big of a deal.
Mario walked toward the stairs after a little while, grumbling as he ascended each step. "It's unbelievable this location; what on earth is happening here?" he wondered, his blood starting to boil. Choosing to conduct some independent research, he decided to speak with his buddy Oren briefly. Mario thought, "He might be able to give me some answers." When he got to Oren's room, he pounded loudly.
"Hello!" came from somewhere inside. Mario is here. If it's okay with you, might we talk about something? He was greeted by the same cheerful, red-faced man opening the door. "May I assist you?" he inquired. Mario's acquaintance seemed to have forgotten who he was once more.
Mario said, attempting to make some kind of connection, "We met yesterday in the bar area; don't you remember me?" "You mentioned your time as a pilot in the reconnaissance corps. Do you recall the Arnhem parachute drop? And what about the German bombing raids? Please tell me you remember all of it, he begged, raising his voice to the point of near-screaming at the confused guy in front of him.
A stern-faced Oren said, "My dear fellow, I have neither been to Arnhem nor do I know anything about a parachute drop you refer to." And how could I possibly tell you about it even if I did have it? Now, if it's okay with you, I would like some time to finish the tasks I have on my list. He said anxiously, "I have to be at camp for 1600 hours."
An erratic Mario broke through the door, snatched Oren's jacket by the lapels, and held him tightly for a few seconds while looking directly into Oren's eyes. Then, Mario turned to look at the jacket his friend was wearing—a blue surge Royal Air Force jacket from the Second World War. It was decorated with a variety of emblems, each of which stood for something. Mario had been in the draft a few years prior, so he had a limited understanding of military decorations. However, he was unaware of anything that looked like a DFC.
"I believed you were granted a DFC," he inquired, briefly releasing his victim. You identified yourself as Pilot Officer Oren Keller, DFC, and I clearly recall that. "Where is your DFC?" Mario stated it sarcastically. Oren attempted to reassure Mario of his standing by saying, "You have to earn one before you can attach it to your uniform, and as of yet, I have not received such an honor." Mario, unimpressed, inquired about Arnhem once again.
Should the landings not have occurred, how could he have learned so much about Arnhem and its history? In what way would he be aware of the parachute drop? A "Market Garden" operation? The hundreds of soldiers transported by air for the assault? the German bombing raids? If none of this had happened, how could he possibly know of Oren's involvement? His goal was to get answers as soon as possible. "Explain everything to me, including how it relates to the Wayfarer's," he yelled.
"Pay attention to me," Oren commanded Mario. "There is nothing to do with me, and whatever it is that is worrying you, Please keep this information to yourself and don't bring it up again in the interest of national security. I have no idea how you found out about any impending military action or how you obtained it. If you can simply relax and have a drink with me, I'll tell you all you need to know.
That done, Oren went over to his chest of drawers and took out two drinking glasses and a bottle of malt from a drawer. After pouring a measure into each, he went back to an armchair and ushered Mario to have a seat before starting to recount the incidents that Mario had mentioned.
After a few hours, Oren decided to end the chat by checking his watch. "Are you now going to guarantee that this information stays confidential between us? These events are unknown outside of Whitehall, and they want to remain silent until they have a better understanding of how things turn out. He cautioned, "Any leak might put tonight's flight in jeopardy. Mario was silent for a short while before answering his companion. "It seems like you think this was just recently," he asked in response. "All of that was more than 26 years ago." Getting up from his seat, he started to leave the room while continuing to look at Oren and periodically shaking his head in disbelief at what he had heard and was supposed to believe. "It was 26 years ago, Oren!" he said as he left.
Mario, still processing what he had just heard, headed to his own room in need of a lie-down to clear his thoughts. "This poor guy is stuck in the past. He thought to himself, "Perhaps that's why he's here, recovering from some delusion."
Mario awakened well after the sun had set. Upon realizing that he must have had an excessive amount of whiskey during Oren's peculiar story earlier in the day, he checked his watch and saw that it was 1.50 a.m. He had slept for much too long, and his poor wife would be worrying about why her husband had not arrived home safely to her and the kids at Kensington. There was a strange noise, like a droning hum coming from above.
The droning noise sounded just like what he'd heard the night before, with the added sound of shrieking this time. Mario had never heard anything like that before. He sprang out of bed, raced to the window, and tugged at the drapes. There was only a dim ball of light that appeared to be on fire, and it was becoming brighter every moment as its angle of elevation dipped lower.
Mario became aware of something unusual abruptly; he had to leave the Wayfarer's swiftly since he knew this enigmatic item was going to smash into them. Reaching for his coat and bag that were laying beside his bed, he quickly headed towards the door. Mario was unfazed by the dim lighting in the hallway as he made his way to the stairway, letting go of his coat and staggering down the hall. The structure was beginning to tremble, and the droning sound was growing louder. His vehicle keys were in his pocket, so there wasn't a need to stop and collect his coat because he had to go out quickly.
Mario needed to go back and retrieve them. There was an almost overwhelming roar from above as he groped his way along the ground for the outerwear. Fast vibrations shook the walls, and portraits started to tumble to the ground from their hangers. Mario realized he was running out of time and that he would undoubtedly get caught in the center of everything if he didn't make his getaway soon. The glass from the picture frames crunched under his soles, but minor wounds to his feet would be the least of his problems unless he could escape to safety outside.
Mario hurried down the staircase, stumbling over fallen things from the walls and trapping his foot in the too-small carpet. He stumbled with every step. After a while, he located the reception area. The droning was getting intolerable, and now there seemed to be a high-pitched screaming or wailing sound, similar to high-rpm engine noise. He realized he had a limited amount of time to locate the exit and step outdoors.
He located the entryway going out into the parking lot and heard the hourly chime of a clock in the reception area. Suddenly, the cockpit of an airplane emerged visible through the mist, and Mario could see swirls of fog parting under the pressure of fire and flame as he peered into the night sky. There wasn't much time to identify the jet, other than its size, as it was directly approaching the building from which he had just evacuated.
The building and aircraft collided in a burst of flaming rubble, metal, and brick, and everything around them turned into a massive ball of flame in a matter of seconds. Mario dropped to the ground beneath his feet, put his hands over his head, and started to pray. I'm praying for the pilot and his crew, for those who are still inside, and most importantly, for his own safety.
Mario fell in and out of consciousness, the blast's searing heat becoming too much for him. When his awareness returned, he could just make out the silhouettes of people fleeing, some attempting to douse the flames as they tried to take over the structure with buckets in hand and others with blankets. Was it only the smoke and fog, or did one side of the Wayfarer's seem to be missing? Mario attempted to improve his vision by massaging his eyes. Not at all! Yes, it had vanished.
Mario stood up, weary, and looked around at the devastation. At the back of the inn lay what appeared to be a bomber aircraft, burning, with its right wing and engine gone from the main fuselage.
It was evident that the wing had broken away from the remainder of the aircraft and crashed into the building's rear, forcing a wall to collapse. He was fortunate because he would have undoubtedly passed away by now if he had stayed in his room. After gathering his thoughts, he became aware that there must be others inside who needed assistance.
Mario observed complete mayhem in the foyer as individuals were scurrying in all directions in an attempt to support one another or offer assistance in any manner with the debris removal. The desk clerk delivered commands in a kind but forceful manner, and everyone cooperated fully, not letting the full effects of the situation overwhelm them. He'd gathered the rest of the guests in the lobby while he finished searching the entire building.
People started to unwind and take in the surroundings once everyone had calmed down on the inside and out. Some of the female residents started showing signs of nervousness as they turned to their boyfriends or other kind visitors for comfort. The clerk reappeared, telling of the damage to his inn's rear wall with a gloomy expression. "Rooms seven and nine are entirely gone. He replied somberly, "I'm sorry, but there doesn't seem to be any trace of survivors at all. Mario recognized room nine as his room right away. He yelled, "I'm here. My room is located in room nine." Mario said, "I think Mr. Oren Keller was in room seven.
Interestingly, no one answered him. He told the cashier again. Once more, he received no response. Mario moved to a better spot in front of the desk clerk in case it was hard to hear above the commotion. He yelled again, "Oren Keller is in room seven, and I am in room nine." The cashier stared straight through Mario while standing motionless. "I'm positive that room nine was empty, but I believe Mr. Clement was in room seven," the clerk remarked, going over his recollections of the guest register. "I assume Mr. Clement is safe, as he would have been expected at camp this afternoon," he said.
Mario said, "This is ridiculous! I'm Mario, right here in front of you. Since the day before yesterday, when I arrived, I have been in room nine. What on earth is happening? Still, he didn't get the answer he was hoping for. Glancing around the foyer, he noticed that the other visitors didn't seem to be aware of his presence.
Mario was suddenly paralyzed with horror. It indicated he wasn't there if no one saw him. He had to be dead if he was not standing in front of them! I can't be!” he exclaimed. "I managed to escape! I managed to escape! I assure you, I was outdoors when the jet struck the building. He rushed wildly about all the visitors, attempting to get their attention, as if in defiance of his slowly developing conclusions, and it seemed as though his typical self-control had vanished. A voice yelled out from behind, "?" "You're here." Mario abruptly turned to see his buddy Oren Keller waiting in the inn's entryway. "You succeeded then?" he inquired.
Can you see me, Oren? So here I am. Living? Mario asked. He begged, "Tell them all that I'm here, and they can see me." He glanced back at the desk receptionist and the other residents. "Look! Here I am. What the devil is wrong with all of you? Still, none of his fellow guests saw him yelling.; they wouldn't listen to you. They won't be able to see or hear us two. Worried, Oren spoke. "I fear that the plane took us both down with it. I tried to get her to move away from me for a minute or two, but you had already left." What on earth are you discussing? I was not on that aircraft.
I was outside the building when I witnessed the crash, so I couldn't have been. Mario pleaded with his pal to come to his senses. "You were thrown clear by the impact," Oren said. "That's how you got outside." Mario persisted in defending his position. "I came here on the 23rd as a traveling sales representative. Oren answered right away, "I have nothing to do with you other than that I met you in the bar." "This wasn't a room for you. You and the crew stayed at the station. My purpose for coming here on the 23rd was to take a nap while my billet was being fixed. You never showed up here!
Mario gradually replayed in his mind what had happened that evening on the 23rd: the room wasn't ready when he arrived at the Wayfarer's, therefore he didn't get a key. Not only was not every piece of furniture and décor from 1969, but neither were the outfits that the guests—especially Oren—wore. His address and phone number had not been found by the operator the day before. Not only could she not recognize his name,.
Oren didn't remember their talking over drinks by the fire, or even that he was acquainted with him at all. These oddities all began to crystallize in his consciousness. But hold on. Something was present! In actuality, he had experienced an unexplainable event. The desk clerk really chatted with him while they were negotiating over the phone. "No, he didn't.; it wasn't you that he talked to. Oren said.
Mario began to slowly absorb the sobering realization of what had happened. He had no intention of seeing his spouse and kids ever again. Given that they had never occurred, how could he? It appears that he was a co-pilot in the RAF, serving under the direction of Oren Keller, DFC, who was not yet a traveling salesman.
However, how did I get to be at the Wayfarer's? Mario questioned Oren. It's quite easy, my close friend. Our primary flying path into Germany is this one. We must have been unaware of something since we were struck. Oren told his colleague, "This particular corridor was deemed the safest path over to Europe as it avoids all of the towns and villages in the area." Regarding your involvement, how? Let me tell you, though. In his haste to go back home for Christmas, a driver gets caught in such dense fog that it becomes an intolerable nightmare to attempt to make his way through.
Suddenly, a light appears out of the mist. The Wayfarer's Inn seems to be a safe sanctuary for tired drivers. It was destroyed by a returning bomber slamming into it, and it had not been shown on a map for more than 26 years, yet here it was. The traveler is given a warm welcome and assured of a restful sleep. It goes without saying that the traveler accepts this luxury of avoiding potential danger in such appalling circumstances. The man, curled up in a cozy armchair by the open fireplace, starts thinking back on his childhood Christmases spent with his family.
Would spending time with the kids be joyful in the end? Don't they always find time to argue over something? In any case, the gentleman wasn't really looking forward to returning home, was he? Maybe the idea of the family stopping by worried him. A nice face emerges, providing a cordial and friendly chat. The traveler embraces the chance to speak with someone who is not related to him with gratitude.
He's already, subconsciously, decided to stay here by now. His last remaining ambition was to find a way to make sense of the bizarre events that were taking place in front of him. He started to embrace a different reality and started to mistrust his own. The choice to peek into a different reality gradually transforms it into your own, and what is becomes what was. The events of December 23rd were very real, but you went a bit too far. Let this serve as a caution to other voyeurs of the past, as well as to you and the other guests present tonight.
As Mario and Oren talked, the light on them both started to gradually go out. There was the sound of a radio in the distance. At first, the interference was intense, but as the light dimmed, it became more visible. "One, seven, Sierra. We've arrived at the location. Car left behind. It appears like the driver came off the road and lost control of the vehicle in the fog. Could we form a team for recovery? Says the voice on the radio. The incident on Wayfarer Road was reported at about two in the morning. The driver may have ventured into the fog in search of help, as there is no evidence of them.