You are visitor #
I scribble this quick note with few hopes of it ever finding you. Fore even now as I cower in this poor excuse for a shelter, my hours are drawing to an end. All I have left of hope is this, a note, scribbled on a piece of birch bark. Scribbled with the hope that our attempt at this new life will not be forgotten. With this dying hope, I tell our tale.
We came to Roanoke, this time more prepared. Our farmers planted a good crop, and our small town had begun to grow. We had even begun to strike up a good repore with the Native Americans (whom I fear will take the major blame for our civilization�s disappearance if this letter is never found.)
But in our growing friendship with the Native Americans, we began to hear rumors of a beast . . . a terror that stalks their land. At the mention of its name, children cried and grown men shuddered. The name translated to Peter or Pedro, but the Natives called him Croatoan. We tried to pass these stories off as old wives tales, as myth taken too literally. That worked fine, until the ground shook beneath our feet. As the children screamed and the women ran for the houses, Croatoan rose out of the depths of the Atlantic. It was a sight more horrific than any of the Native�s stories. He was a giant sphere that rose 100 feet above the waves even before his full girth could be seen. In an instant, he was upon us, beating our town back into the earth we had built it from. A hundred men fell to his fierce onslaught, a hundred more scattered into the woods. I broke into a dead sprint for the Native American�s camp, the sounds of Pedro�s destruction echoing behind me.
I reached the camp, but everyone was gone, not a trace of the tribe was left. I would fear their destruction, but they had survived this horror before. Generations of running and hiding and surviving . . . but not us. Our destruction was complete. I was assured of this with every scream that was consumed by the terrible crash that followed it, each one closer than the last.
And so I sit, hoping and praying that this fate will pass me by, but I know it will not. All that stands between me and my death is a pile of rocks, a few logs, and time . . . time I am left with to pope . . .to hope that this letter will find you . . . that our struggle will not be forever erased by the beast.