It’s Not You, or the Eldritch Entities Wiping Out San Francisco, It’s Me

by Dan Peacock

Scott, 

I know this isn’t a good time for you, with the mysterious ultradimensional entities occupying most of downtown. But it’s not a good time for anyone. It’s taken me a long time to pluck up the courage to write this letter, but here we are. We’re through. 

It’s not you, it’s me Actually, no, it’s completely, entirely you. And if this is the end, I don’t think I want our last moments to be together. 

You know when I started to realise it? When I saw the first reports coming in from Golden Gate Park, where a sinkhole had appeared above the ground and dark shapes were pouring out of it, and you said it was nothing to worry about. The neighbourhood was cordoned off, you said. It was fine. They’d had some guy on Rogan, apparently, after more sinkholes and dark entities started appearing in other city centers. Apparently, the whole thing was “a false flag operation” to “further the agenda.” I had no clue what those words even meant when they were put together like that. 

You obviously don’t value my opinions. You never have. I told you from the start that we should have gotten out of here. 

Another thing: not once have you asked about my parents. I know yours have been gone for a long time, but seriously. You haven’t asked at all. For the record, my mom is okay. She got a message to me before the communications blackout: her and Steve are holed up in their summer cabin in the Ozarks. The entities don’t seem to have made it that far east yet. But I didn’t hear from anyone on my dad’s side over in Pacific Heights before everyone’s phones stopped working. I'm worried that they’re all gone. And with the city-wide lockdown, I can’t even go out and look for them myself. 

I think part of you is happy that the army has told us that we have to stay inside, so you can sit on your ass and play your stupid games all day, just like you did during the pandemic. You don’t even seem bothered about why. You’re just pissed off that Netflix isn’t working. 

It’s sad, but even though you’ve got nowhere else to be, I have to ask you to do anything around the house. Sure, you’ll do the dishes, but the fact that you need prompting is pathetic. You know what you remind me of? They’re saying online that anyone who has seen an entity in the flesh, even from a distance, becomes a mindless drone. They’re able to respond to basic motor commands: walk, stop, eat, drink, sleep, but are unable to think for themselves. That’s what it feels like with you. What’s the difference? If you’re doing some housework tasks that I’ve had to assign to you (!) and you notice something else that needs doing, I know you’ll just ignore it because it wasn't in the job spec. Like, you didn’t take the trash out again, even though that’s one of your few “man” jobs. You said: “There’s no point, the garbage trucks aren’t coming. The depot where they kept them got sucked into a mirror reality along with the rest of downtown when the entities arrived.” But it was overflowing inside the house, and even if the trash was overflowing outside, at least we wouldn’t be able to smell it there. 

The other thing is money. Maybe worrying about money seems ridiculous now, but you’re so irresponsible. Your last paycheck went in just before the entities appeared, and it pinged straight back out to gambling sites and ridiculous microtransactions in your video games. I had to cover everything. Again. 

(500 gems for $39.99? Really? And all you could buy with them was different colored cufflinks for your stupid character!!) 

Do you want to know what the absolute final straw was, though? When I said that I was getting scared, that we should sneak out of the city and go stay with my mom, and you told me to stop being hysterical. 

But guess what, Scott, it’s over. And I’m taking the car. I’m going to find my dad, too, if I can. If he’s still alive. Whatever roadblocks they have, I’m driving through them, before the entities decide it’s time to venture out into the suburbs. If you come to your senses and decide to flee before it’s too late, you can take that big dumb coal-fired megaphone in the garage that you call a “Harley.” (I knew you were never going to finish “fixing it up” after the first week, when you got bored with it. It goes forward and turns, though, even if it wakes up the entire block when you start the engine. You’ll be fine, but any other survivors will think you’re a prick.) 

I’m leaving my keys, not that there will be a house to come back to, probably. I do hope you get out, before the entities that have set up residence in the void that used to be downtown San Francisco start expanding their territory. I mostly don’t want you to die or get dragged away to another dimension. You’re not actually a bad person, you just kinda suck, and I want you far, far away from me, especially if we don’t have long left. You might be safe, though, come to think of it — the other dimension might not want to get stuck with you either. 

There’s leftovers in the fridge. 

Amy 

© 2025 Dan Peacock