Day 2,193

 The sound of old nursery rhymes echo throughout the industrial estate, alerting the rest of the town that the sleepers were restless. Doors were locked and barricaded, windows were boarded up on both sides - it was almost enough to make them feel safe, almost enough for them to convince their own children that the nursery rhymes were meant for them so they could drift to sleep.

Then something stopped the music.

Then the sleepers turned from restless to curious.

Then they left their burrows beneath the industrial estate and began to wander the town.

Fifteen were filmed leaving and only ten returned. Where the others are, it's hard to say. They stopped leaving a trail of broken hands with missing fingers about twenty miles past the town's outskirts, right where the last houses meet dense woodlands.

All we can say for certain is that the nursery rhymes have stopped working for the ones who returned, if the sharp increase in missing and murdered persons is of any correlation. We still call them the sleepers, still whisper the word like saying it any louder would wake them up and we still thoroughly imprison ourselves every night in the hope that we'll live to see the morning.