This is another point that I was always vague on. I gave you the impression that the Stranger might come for either of us, both to train you to be ready and because I couldn’t guarantee that it is actually following any set pattern or rules. But as far as I’m aware, it has always gone after only one particular person. When that person has been taken and used, or when that person dies for whatever other reason, it then moves on to the next person. Oldest to youngest in the bloodline.

My mother died when I was seventeen. My sister Maggie killed herself when I was twenty-three. And the day after her funeral was the first time the Stranger tried to take me. That’s the other reason you have to read this. The reason why you may have multiple copies of this same letter, as I had two delivery services and a person I trust all set to get you this letter at all costs if I stopped checking in. This may seem like overkill, but I needed to make sure there were redundancies in place if one of the copies didn’t reach you. Because this last point is the most important.

If I’m dead now, the Stranger is coming for you next.

And I don’t say this to scare you or ruin your life. Just the opposite. But you are the best and most important thing I ever did in this world, and I love you so much and I want you to be safe. I’m sorry I didn’t stop it. But maybe you will. Or if not stop it, at least survive it. You are so smart and strong, and I know you can do it.

Goodbye, sweetheart.

Watch everyone.

The Bowl of Pripyat

When I first opened the yellow envelope that contained the journal of Alexi Petrovich, my first thought was that it was a mistake or a joke. It was clearly an old journal, and as I flipped through its pages, I saw that it was filled with a small, cramped handwriting that I didn’t recognize at first because of the words filling the spaces between the rows of faded blue lines. You see, the words were in Russian and I don’t know any Russian.

But as I paused at random and began studying a page, I felt my hands start to tingle. It was as though a mild current was passing through the journal, causing my fingers to clamp tighter on the plastic cover of the book as I realized I wasn’t just looking at the words. I was reading them.