( WP ) You 're now retired after 25 years in the military . The last 15 years of which spent working in Roswell New Mexico . After 2 years of `` brain washing '' you are settled in to your retirement .

`` S-H-E-L-L'' 
 
 No mistaking it. THe spasms were subsiding now, the message still cycling start to finish. 
 
 `` S-H-E-L-L'' 
 
 I was on my feet now. Cold tingling sensation settling into my spine. Had my retirement been preceded by a long stint as a janitor i might have dismissed it, however seeing as ive spent my working life as a... 
 
 I dont know? 
 
 How can i not know? i know what i was, its there, right... there, but i cant place it. Something regimented? Secrets? 
 
 I cant place it. 
 
 `` S-H-E-L-L'' 
 
 The spasm was subsiding still, but the message was still cycli- 
 
 `` S-H-E-L-F'' 
 
 A second spasm, in my finger this time, the message felt the same, but the last letter had changed. 
 
 SHELL 
 
 SHELF 
 
 There is a shell on my book shelf. Typical enough. People keep shells right? i dont have any recollection of putting it there. I remember each of the books; An early edition of Bram Stoker's Dracula from my daughter, assorted crime and spy novels, of which Robert Ludlem features heavily. The shell was an anomaly though had it always been there? im sure it had, but if it had always been there, who put it there? 
 
 The shell was cool in my hand, smooth and laquered, clearly bought from some kind of gift shop, likely one of those you find on beach resorts, the kind full of glinting foil windmills, postcards and the heavy aroma of sugary sweets and fudge. The shell felt normal enough, i believe its called a'conch', the spiralling design led to an opening where the creature that once inhabited this shell would have lived. In its place however was a torn piece of type-written paper. Unravelling it, it measured no longer and no wider than my index finger. On it were typed the words: 
 
 `` Garage. Tool box. 5515'' 
 
 I wasnt aware i owned a tool box. I barely even used the garage. Living in a city i have very little use of personal transport, the garage was home to a large chest freezer, and thankfully free of the junk one would assume a man of my age would accumulate having worked all over the world. 
 
 Did i work all over the world? 
 
 The toolbox was easy to find, a bright red, rectangular metal box, unblemished by use, but dusty from disuse. It was, however, empty inside. The cantilever shelves held nothing bar the manufacturers time coloured instruction manual and a single woodlouse, slolwy inching its way across the inside wall. 
 
 I stopped to consider the compuction with which i was pursuing these apparent'clues'. THe average person when confronted with the preceding sequence of events would likely be more preoccupied with who was leaving them strange messages and why their body was conversing with them, albeit cryptically, in morse code. I found retirement boring however and this was a welcome distraction from the Columbo reruns and cooking shows id grown habitually addicted to. 
 
 Was it normal for people to just *know* morse code? i dont remember learning it... 
 
 The tool box was perfectly empty, completely unused. Putting it back onto the floor i noticed a section shelf it came from was lose. Fetching a scredriver from the pristine set that resided in the kitchen draw, i prized it open. A small safe sat in the opening, sat in a hole chisseled out of the foundations of the house. The combination was no mystery and the numbers popped up on the small LED display as i typed them in. A mechanical click signified the four digit code in the Conch had served its purpose. 
 
 Inside i found; A small brown envelope, several keys, one for a vehicle, a postcard with an address in New York and a menu from a diner there named simply'Kegans'. 
 
 Another type written message lay at the back under the other contents. This was one was less cryptic, but altogether more alarming. It read simply: 
 
'RUN'. 
 
 Edit: At work, will add more, probably.
