My Sister Who Posted "Babysitting Instructions" Went Missing Yesterday
I suppose I’ll start from the beginning.
About a month or so ago, a woman and her daughter moved in the house a few blocks away. I’m not completely sure why, but it quickly became the house that kids avoided on their way to school, or dared each other to knock on the door. In a few short weeks, the house grew a stigma that most take years if not decades to develop.
Word spreads quickly here, and soon the whole town grew familiar of Gwendolyn and her daughter, Abigail, or at least familiar with the rumors and stories that spread. Some were saying that Abigail had a rare skin disease or some sort of autism, and others made much darker assumptions.
I won’t dive into the heresay – there’s no place for it here. Here, I would like to discuss the facts of the recent events, which I will get to in a moment.
First, Gwendolyn and Abigail are seldom seen. Gwendolyn comes and goes from time to time, but is never seen at the local grocery stores, the post office, or anywhere in town. When she leaves the house, she seems to vanish.
Second, Abigail has never been seen by anyone that I know of. In light of the recent events, I’ve spoken with several of the neighboring families, none of which have ever seen Abigail in any such capacity.
Third, the family in the house seems to keep to a strange routine. Loud music is played throughout the house in the wee hours of the morning, and the door is never answered by anyone.
Fourth, no animal has been seen on the premises of the home since Gwendolyn and her daughter moved in. At first, I thought this was one of those rumors that had no more merit than the one that suggested Gwendolyn was a witch, but I’ve witnessed this myself. In the time that I’ve been paying attention to the house, it seems that the stray cats and dogs avoid that side of the street altogether, and even the birds refuse the land in the tree in the front yard.
Fifth, the first and only person that anyone is aware of ever being invited in, is my little sister. She was invited to the home not once, but twice, and since her first visit, was offered a position as the young girl’s babysitter
Now on to the incident which prompted me to write this. My sister is missing. She was supposed to report to the home yesterday afternoon after she received a series of unusual instructions. I told her to catalogue her experiences under my username – she doesn’t care enough to make her own account, and we both thought it was a good idea that she keeps a record of the things she found.
I’ve kept on the posts, as a good number of reddit users have, in absolute terror. After her first post on Thursday afternoon, I went over to the house myself. Nobody answered, but I could hear the screaming coming from what I imagine is Abigail’s room.
I called the police. They responded, but when they showed up, Gwendolyn answered the door and told them that the babysitter, my sister, had left an hour ago. I don’t believe her at all, but the police seemed to. I don’t understand how or why, but they took her word for it without hesitation.
She never came home last night. I saw the posts and read them and reread them and cursed her for not following the goddamn rules that were clearly laid out for her. She’s a sweet girl, really, but admittedly dense and too curious for her own good. It was supposed to be an easy job! Even if it was a little strange…
This afternoon, I read her last post. Stupid girl! I hope she’s okay, but I’ve steeled myself to expect the worse. I’ve submitted a missing persons’ report, but somehow I don’t think the authorities will do much. Gwendolyn seems much smarter than anyone gave her credit for, and she seems to have a way with people – a way that chills me to the bone.
I’m going to do some research about her and her daughter and see what I can dig up about what’s really going on in what my sister referred to as the Yates home.
***
Below, I’ve transcribed my notes from the first day of surveillance of the Yates home over the past since my sister’s disappearance.
I, like many of you who followed my sister’s story, believe her to be dead. I hope for the contrary, but with so much evidence stacked against her survival, I know that if I am to continue with this crusade of sorts, I cannot disregard evidence. Furthermore, if she’s dead, she will have died shortly after her final post, and if she’s alive, she will likely be alive for a fair amount of time, so I will not waste my life trying to buy my sister time.
Saturday, June 24, 2017.
6:05 am – I’ve set myself up in a house across the street from the Yates home. The house I’m in is currently vacant and has been for at least the past year and a half at my best guess, so I’m not currently concerned with my investigation being upended. I’m set up with cameras, recorders, binoculars, and other such surveillance tools. I expect to spend as much time here over the next few days as I can without raising suspicion.
8:57 am – Gwendolyn Yates just left the home. She’s walking down the street – I don’t think she has a car. She doesn’t appear to have any sort of purse or anything she’s carrying with her.
9:10 am – Gwendolyn has not returned. She missed Abigail’s 9AM feeding, unless she fed her just before she left, but either way, she did not keep to the rule which she laid out so clearly for my sister.
10:17 am – Gwendolyn has not returned, but I just heard a knocking sound coming from the house. I have a friend coming over now to spot me while I investigate the outside of the house in search of any possible entry points.
11:30 am – The knocking I’ve been hearing is coming at strange intervals that I can’t find a pattern in, and it’s seemingly coming from several areas of the house. I’ve heard the knocking in the front door, the back window, the back door, and somewhere in the basement.
12:00 pm - I’ve checked out the perimeter of the house, and have made the following observations:
· Although parts of the back lawn are green, there are several large circles of greener areas.
· As my sister noted, all doors and windows seem to be locked and barred, which will make it difficult to enter the home as I intend to do in the near future.
· The symbol on the letters and painted on Abigail’s door in my sister’s photos is also painted on the back and cellar doors as well. It seems to be used similarly to those symbols used by ancient cultures as a lock to keep bad spirits in or out of wherever the symbol was mounted. This leaves me to wonder: is she keeping something in, or is she keeping something out?
· The room which I believe to be Abigail’s room judging from my sister’s description has no windows. There are large boards behind the standard bars that cover the rest of the house’s orifices. Abigail is clearly not meant to be seen, nor is she meant to leave.
· Upon further inspection with my binoculars, I see the same symbol painted on the boards covering the window.
1:00 pm – Gwendolyn has still not returned. This is the fifth feeding that Abigail has missed, assuming that nobody else has been left in the house with her.
3:15 pm – I believe I just saw a shadow move across the curtains in one of the bedrooms. My friend, who has been with me intermittently throughout the day, believes he saw it as well. It looked like a human shadow, although I will make no assumptions beyond shape. I can be certain it was not the shadow of Gwendolyn because she has not yet returned, nor is she as tall as the shape we saw. This leaves me to believe that there is another being inside the house – be it Teresa, my sister, or something else.
9:49 pm – Gwendolyn just returned.
9:54 pm – Someone is screaming inside the house. It’s not my sister though – it sounds like something else.
I’m working on transcribing my other log now. Will update as soon as I can.
If any of you know anything about Abigail, Gwendolyn, Teresa or that symbol, please let me know. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what to do. I know I need to get into that house, and I’m collecting holy water and crucifixes and ash wood, but I don’t know WHAT they are, let alone what will keep me safe.
***
As promised yesterday, below are my surveillance notes of the Yates house from three days ago.
Sunday, June 25, 2017
6:00 am – I spent the night in the house across the street from the Yates home to see if I could hear any music between the hours of 2 and 4. It played at the precise time indicated, but I’m not quite sure what music it was. It definitely wasn’t anything I’ve heard and they lyrics weren’t English. The instruments used sounded like a combination of a digeridoo and a harp, and the tune was more of a purposeful chant than a lyrical melody.
9:00 am – Gwendolyn is leaving the house again, and I’m going to follow her. My aforementioned friend, whom I’ll call Max for the purpose of this log, is staying behind to watch the house and has promised to call me in the event anything more unusual than what we experienced yesterday happens. We’ve both agreed that I will call and update him at the top of every hour to ensure my safety and his.
10:00 am – I just got off the phone with Max. I’ve been following Gwendolyn for about four or so miles so far.
10:30 am – Gwendolyn just walked into a church. I’m going to follow her inside.
10:45 am – She’s sitting in one of the pews and I think she’s praying. Her hands are clasped together and her head is bowed down contritely. Can witches step foot on hallowed ground? I didn’t think so, but I also thought that she might be a witch or something of the sort. This isn’t adding up.
11:30 am – I just spoke with one of the priests who works here. He said that she comes in every single day. She doesn’t talk to any of them, but just comes and prays all day.
The priest insists she hasn’t missed a day. Not a SINGLE day! Not even on the day she was apparently interviewing my sister for the babysitting job. I asked around to a few of the other people here, and they all are insistent that she comes here every day and hasn’t missed a day since she started coming. Nobody sees her eat, nobody sees her go anywhere until she’s done praying.
I asked about the day she interviewed my sister – the only day I can imagine that her whereabouts would be anywhere other than the church, but the priest insists she was here. If she was here, and there are plenty of witnesses I asked that agree, then who was it that did my sister’s interview?
1:30 pm – I’m back with Max now. We’re going to keep watching the house and have decided that if we hear screaming again, we’re calling the police. I can’t believe we didn’t think to call them last night.
9:55 pm – The police are on their way. We just heard the screaming again – the same grotesque sound as before echoing from across the street in the twilight. Gwendolyn hasn’t returned from church yet, so we figure that now is the best time. She can’t do whatever she did to the police this time to make them leave. We called it in anonymously.
10:10 pm – Gwendolyn answered the door!
10:15 pm – I don’t know what’s going on, but we have had 100% surveillance of the house all afternoon and there’s no way Gwendolyn could have come home without us knowing, but somehow, she did. Somehow, she answered the door to the police wearing a prim smile and her trademark black dress. They left two minutes later, and now as I write this, the street is as silent and black as a cemetery.
We called back, but the police wouldn’t listen. The woman on the dispatch line told me that if I continued to call in “false emergencies” the call would be tracked to our location and we would be charged with a misdemeanor. I’m not sure if it was really her talking, or if somehow whatever influence Gwendolyn has over the police has extended far beyond issues on her front porch. It terrifies me to think about.
11:30 pm – Gwendolyn just came up the street and went inside the house, and the screaming started again.
*
I’m afraid that I may need to go in myself if I’m to find out what happened to my sister.
To
those looking into the symbol, I thank you. I and a few of my friends
have been looking into it as well, and the best we can come up with is
that it’s an amalgam of at least two symbols, possibly more. One symbol
is clearly the Path of Life symbol, but the other(s) are still a
mystery. Perhaps I’ll find out what the symbol is meant for when I go
inside the house.
***
After deliberation between Max and myself, we have decided that further investigation needs to happen before entering the house. When we enter, I don’t want to run into any surprises with the layout of the house. If there IS something or someone inside the house that may cause harm to us, I want to give it as little of a home-court advantage as I possibly can.
With Gwendolyn leaving every morning just before 9 and not arriving back home till later in the evening, we decided to take that time to survey the yard and see what we can from the windows.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, the backyard is large and although the grass is fairly green, there are circles throughout the area that are even greener. Max suggested something about this that I hadn’t considered, but even as I write this, the implication gives me chills. The parts of the lawn are greener because they’re either getting more water, or more fertilizer. There is not a sprinkling system in the backyard, so unless she is hand-watering the grass to make it look like this, the only other idea is that they’re getting more fertilizer. He said he read once that a man in California got caught burying bodies in his yard after a neighbor noticed similar patches of green in his lawn following the disappearance of several of the neighborhood children.
As we approached the house, we decided to start with the cellar door, figuring that we’d work from the bottom up. There’s not much to see from that door, but I believe that when we enter the house, we will be able to gain access by breaking the bars that cover it. We listened as closely as we could and Max believes he heard the shuffling sound of someone moving around. I didn’t hear it, but I won’t count his testimony out.
Next, we peeked through the windows. We could see the kitchen from the back yard, and just as my sister described, there is a stack of trays next to the fridge. There are no dishes in the sink that I can see, and although the house has a generally dusty feel to it, I didn’t see any sign of clutter. It reminded me of the feeling I get when I go to my great-grandmother’s house, but more sinister.
We moved to the other windows next where we could peer into the living room. I believe this is where my sister would have had her interview. There is a couch and a television on one side of the room, and on the further side, we can see a single wing-backed arm chair with a coffee table in front of it. Across from those is a large bookshelf with thick tomes in a language I don’t know. It’s not English, nor do I recognize any of the words from any other language I’m familiar with. If the words weren’t printed on the spines of books, I would have considered them gibberish.
I had Max write the names of a couple of the thicker books down. One was called “A Canilu De Coredazodizoda” and the other was called “Mahorela Croodzi.”
From another window, I could see the stairs to the basement. There’s a door there at the top of the stairs, but it was left completely open. I can’t be sure because it was rather dark in the basement, but I think I saw something move down there. Max didn’t see it, and I admit that it may have been my imagination this time, but I thought I saw something move in the darkness, like the density of the shadows in the basement changed slightly, then returned to normal.
We found the room my sister thought was Gwendolyn’s. I believe her to be correct, but it doesn’t look like Gwendolyn spends much time here. The door is closed, and on the back, facing the bed, is that same twisted symbol, but this time it has something written underneath it.
GEN GE ZIMII
We followed the wall further and Max had to hoist me up to look into the bathroom window. It was hard to see through the frosted glass, but the frosting was old and poorly done, so I could make out shapes and colors. When I first saw the dark shape, I gasped and my stomach lurched and I nearly fell off of Max’s shoulders, but I soon realized it was just a black sheet. It was covering something, but it only took me a minute to realize it was covering the bathroom mirror.
The sheet was held up by something – staples or nails if I were to venture a guess, although it could have been a number of things – and I got the impression that the sheet had been there for quite some time and that there was no intention to move it in the near future.
We were just about to leave when we heard the knocking again. Instead of sporadic, it seemed somehow purposeful – like it was knocking for us to answer.
We followed the sound to the backyard – to the first window we peered through, but there was something drastically different. My blood ran cold and the expression on Max’s slack-jawed face was as pale as the whites of his eyes.
Plaster dust and sheetrock collected on the counter tops of the kitchen, and above them, deeply carved in the wall in large, clumsy letters were three words:
PI I OZIEN.
Does anyone know what language this is? It’s like nothing I’m at all familiar with, but something about it makes rocks form in my stomach. I’d like to see if we can figure out what language it is and what it means before we make our next move if that’s at all possible. This afternoon I’m going to see if the priest from Gwendolyn’s church would be willing to come with us, or at least give us some sort of blessing or advice.
***
According to what little I can find, it looks like the language used in the house is Enochian. Also dubbed the “language of the angels” or the “first language of God,” Enochian was forgotten by mankind after the death of Enoch until the 16thcentury, where it was discovered and deciphered again. The language is said to be the one used in heaven and the one that Adam used to name things in the garden of Eden. It’s the language that the serpent used to get Eve to eat the fruit, and the language used by devils to mock God.
If what I understand of this language is true, whatever or whomever wrote these messages and books are likely very old, and likely not from this side of the veil.
I told the priest at the church of my situation, and I’m not sure he took me as seriously as I’d hoped, but in the end, he was at least willing to “play along.”
With this knowledge, we set out to arm ourselves with whatever we could. The priest granted us plastic vials of holy water, but only one each, so we couldn’t get enough for a super-soaker with would be ideal. We also collected sage and ash-wood, which we intend to burn once inside the house. We packed a large bag of cedar shavings and we both bought rosaries to wear around our necks. We packed those items and a handful of other useful tools in our backpacks which we wore on our excursion.
I drafted a couple more friends to follow Gwendolyn to make sure that she didn’t come home unexpectedly. I didn’t get into the details, but they agreed to stick together and call me if Gwendolyn goes anywhere other than the church or if anything happens, no matter how minor.
I thought about bringing a gun, but decided against it. If I’m wrong, a gun could complicate things immensely, and I don’t think that a gun would work on either Abigail or Teresa.
We started in the backyard with Max’s dad’s saws-all. We cut the bars and lock to the cellar door and went in. The mission, we agreed, was to get in, search the house, and get out. If we found my sister, we’d bring her with me, but if we didn’t, we wouldn’t stay any longer than an hour.
The basement was dark, lit only by the sunlight coming through the now open cellar door. The back of the house faces the east, so we had the sun on our side for our entrance.
The scent in the basement was horrible. It smelled like iron and human excrement and mold. We covered our noses and mouths with the collars of our shirts and proceeded into the basement.
We each held flashlights that lit our path, but also had a matchbook in our pockets just to be safe.
Working our way down first, we found the barred gate that my sister mentioned in her post. We burned sage outside the room, and placed cedar shavings in the doorway, then entered the lower part of the basement.
I found the pictures that my sister described adorning the walls, and in the corner of the room, I found something that made my heart stop. It was a girl’s shoe, size six, and the white leather that it was made of was covered in dry, rust-colored blood. I recognized it immediately as my sister’s shoe.
Max saved me then from touching it. I went to pick it up, but he stopped me, reminding me that we’d promised each other not to touch anything that wasn’t necessary for our safety or escape.
We left the basement as silently as we could, however the creaky stairs leading up to the ground floor announced our presence.
Armed with flashlights in one hand and our vials of holy water in the other, we entered the top floor of the house.
We started in the kitchen. Where the message had been carved for me on the wall was now a fresh coating of plaster. It looked like it had been done in a hurry, but the message was no longer visible. Max and I exchanged curious glances, then continued.
We went to the bookshelf and opened a few of the tomes there. They were all written in that same Enochian language, and seemed to be some sort of ritualistic spell-books. We looked for something that might be of use, but we couldn’t find any pictures that seemed relevant or anything that remotely looked like the symbol that had been placed everywhere.
We didn’t go into Gwendolyn’s room, but instead went straight up the stairs. The more time we spent there, the more danger we were in, and we didn’t need to waste time exploring.
As we walked up the steps, we heard a knock at the door that made us both jump. We exchanged a look, then kept walking up the stairs. The knocking persisted, then a voice accompanied it.
“Kids, we know you’re in there!”
It sounded like the police. I swallowed and pressed onward.
The knocking grew louder and seemed to echo around the walls, and soon it was as if the knocking wasn’t outside, but INSIDE the house. The door at the top of the stairs was broken on its hinges. I pulled it aside, placed cedar shavings in the threshold, and stepped into the room where my sister was last known to be.
The room was again filled with the similar metallic fecal smell that the basement had. I covered my nose, and had to clench my teeth to stop from throwing up as soon as I understood what it was I was looking at.
The room was stained with a rust color on the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. It was blood, and in my chest I knew it was my sister’s blood.
Chills ran up my back and over my scalp like thousands of spider legs and I began to shake. When I turned around, I nearly screamed.
On the wall, written in blood with the same, messy letters as those that were carved in the wall in the kitchen were three words:
TELOAH IOLCAM ALONUSAHI
I staggered out of the room and threw up. It wasn’t just the smell or the fact of my sister’s death, but something else that made my stomach twist and convulse.
Max was halfway down the hall when I looked up. I called out to him and asked what the hell he thought he was doing. We’re supposed to stick together!
He told me he felt bad for Abigail. She’s just a little girl, after all, and had been cooped up in that room for God knows how long.
I ran over and stopped him. The way he was thinking, the way he was speaking, was not at all the kind of person I knew him to be. I told him we were leaving.
He protested and I hit him square on the side of the head. I yelled at him “Get your head back! She’s in your head!”
I could feel her too. I felt bad for Abigail and I wondered if perhaps I’d been misunderstanding all along. She was probably just a terrified, abused little girl whose mother was so negligent that we believed her to be something beyond human.
I blinked and thought about my sister and the blood and the sneaker in the basement. Abigail or Teresa or whomever it was, was wiggling around in my skull like a tapeworm building a nest inside your intestines. She was there, and she wanted to stay.
With sudden surety, I opened my vial of holy water and swallowed it. It wasn’t more than a couple of ounces, but the second my throat pushed the liquid down, I could feel her leaving my mind. She tugged and pulled at me, but her claws couldn’t find a hold and soon I got my mind back.
I knew what I had to do.
I dropped my backpack and pulled out the two-liter bottle of gasoline. This was the contingency plan we’d put in place. If my sister was dead and we believed there to be evil within the house, we were going to burn it to the ground.
Max was standing up and I made him drink his own holy water and get the gasoline out of his backpack. He did so. And soon we were dousing the hallway with my bottle of gas. With Max’s we made a trail down the stairs and emptied the rest onto the couch. I hoped it would be enough to bring the whole fucking house down.
We went to the stairs, and I lit the matchbook. The ten matches inside went up in a blaze and I tossed them at the couch, then bolted down the stairs. I could feel the heat behind me as I ran down the stairs and out the cellar door.
***
I thought I’d finally finished it. I thought it was over.
I when I awoke, it wasn’t with a jolt or with bleary eyes, but it was a smooth transition – like I’d never been asleep in the first place and I was just opening my eyes.
The clock on my nightstand told me it was just past three, and as I sat up, the coolness came over me like a rising tide. I could feel it in my chest and on my skin. I knew she was there. I can’t describe how I knew, but I knew she was standing in the corner before I saw her.
Casting shadows against the faint moonlight and the red glow of my alarm clock, stood my sister in the corner of the room.
Her face was pale and sad, and she didn’t seem to have much control of her body. Her fingers danced at her sides as if she were playing with an invisible marionette doll, but her knuckles seemed taught and arthritic.
It wasn’t her – not really – and I knew that just as soon as I saw the twisted smile dancing on her lips. My sister was dead, and whatever stood before me was a mockery of her.
When the figure spoke, it was in my sister’s familiar voice. “You’ve ruined it for her.”
“For who?” I asked.
“For Gwendolyn.” She began to laugh then, and the laugh was high and piercing - and somehow inhuman.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m them,” she said.
“Who?”
“I’m Teresa. I’m Abigail. I’m your sister now.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my pulse racing in my chest.
“We’re here for her.” The last word was punctuated by another cold chill on my skin.
Suddenly the face of my sister darkened and she fell into the shadows of the room, and from the other corner, materialized the shape of a woman, and I saw that I was staring at the thin, pale face of Gwendolyn Yates. “You ruined everything!” she screamed with a sudden hoarseness that made my hair stand on end. “You’ve damned us!”
“What do you mean?” I asked, sitting back in my bed, and thinking of the rosary in my nightstand drawer.
“The symbols,” she said. “You broke them!”
Just as if I were watching it in a movie, I could see the fire Max and I started licking up the doors and walls of the Yates home, and I could see the paint on Abigail’s door melt and the wood in the windows of her bedroom blacken and burn.
I swallowed and could hear the click in my dry throat.
“Nobody was ever supposed to know they were there. Nobody was ever supposed to enter the house. Why did you go inside? What did they do to you?”
“You were a part of it, too!” I argued angrily. “You hired my sister to babysit. You let her into your house with those stupid rules about feeding her and the baby picture, and now she’s dead!” My throat burned with those words and I could feel tears at the corners of my eyes.
“I did no such thing,” Gwendolyn said. “Tell me, please, and be honest and quick about it. Did she bring the baby picture to Abigail? Did she feed her?” Her voice had become pleading now. Was she scared?
“Yes,” I replied. “She fed her that gross slop you told her to and she gave her the baby picture with it.”
Her mouth worked, but no sound came out for a moment. Then she finally said “Your sister was duped by Abigail and her counterpart to complete an archaic ritual, and you were duped into freeing them. The baby pictures, the ‘slop’ to which you refer I’m sure was a variety of freshly ground meats; they were all steps in a rather complex ritual. It was all part of a plan that would free them from the prison in which they were kept, and set them loose upon the souls of mankind. The things I did, the spells, the symbols, all were meant to keep them in and to keep them weak.”
As she spoke, Gwendolyn looked like she was in immense pain. She began to contort again and faded away into nothingness. The figure in the opposite corner grew taller and darker and lost all features until she was just a dark, thin shape towering over me in my bed.
I lunged for the nightstand and grabbed the rosary from the drawer. I held it out in front of me, but she was already gone.
On the ground where Gwendolyn had stood was a note.
Mr. DoverHawk,
Do not blame yourself for this misfortune. Teresa’s cunning and intellect has been developed over the course of centuries. Abigail was never meant to be free; she is a danger to anyone who sees her or seeks her out. I’m so desperately sorry for the loss of your sister, and even more for the loss of her soul. Please do not pursue her – she is dead in many more ways than just her mortal body. If you wish to remain safe from Abigail and Teresa, and now your sister, please follow these instructions:
· If someone knocks on your door past the hour of midnight, do not answer it, regardless of whom you believe it may be.
· If you hear a tapping on the window or in the attic, do not pursue it.
· If you hear someone call your name, do not acknowledge them.
· If you see anyone standing behind you in your reflection, run.
If you follow these rules, I pray you will be safe.
Regards,
Gwendolyn Yates.
After reading the letter, my eyes rose from the paper and drifted toward the window. Smoke still hung in the air from the house fire that destroyed the Yates home, and although I can’t be sure, I believe I saw the faint outline of a little girl and tall, thin woman walking down the street and into the night.
*
I read an article the following morning about a young girl of about twelve or so going missing, snatched from her bed a few counties over. She was found dead a couple days later in an abandoned house. The coroner report says it was due to blood loss, but the pictures of the autopsy were leaked and she was unmistakably covered in bite marks – as if something had been eating her.
If anyone has any information about the whereabouts of Abigail and Teresa Yates, please let me and everyone else in the community know, and please, follow the instructions.
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