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Dad always told people he was just a security contractor. Pretty vague, right? But that's how things worked in our town. When your neighbor's car showed up with strange dents and scorch marks, you learned not to ask questions. That's just life near the base.

I found Dad's old journal in the basement yesterday. Most entries were normal, until I reached October 1985. The handwriting changed, and the margins were filled with strange symbols. What caught my eye was a recurring phrase: "They're watching through the mirrors."

While cleaning out my old hard drive, I found a strange encrypted file dated back to 2008. The filename was a series of random numbers, but something about it felt familiar. My hands trembled as I clicked to open it.

Congratulations to your shift at Oakwood Hospital's morgue. Remember, at 1:15 AM, check the temperature displays. If any show -13.3°C, don't adjust them. If you hear humming from drawer 23, don't open it. And most importantly, never respond when someone calls your name.

The old photograph fell from between the pages of my father's journal. It showed three men in white lab coats standing before a steel door marked "Section 7." Dad never mentioned working there, but then again, there were many things he never discussed.

I found an old photograph in my father's study yesterday. The edges were worn, showing a group of scientists in white coats, but their faces were deliberately blurred. On the back, written in faded ink: "Project Echo, 1982. Remember to forget."

Dad always said our house was different too. No satellite dishes allowed, no photos from certain angles. When friends asked about the weird rules, I'd just shrug and say "government housing guidelines." Like mom's job, some things were better left unexplained.

Dad always told people he worked in "facility maintenance." Pretty vague, right? But when your workplace doesn't officially exist, you get good at being vague. The security badges changed colors every week, and we learned not to ask why.