Entry by KenWallin

Your eyes drift naturally back to that mystery paragraph, the one you assumed was a simple substitution cipher, easy enough to decode. But a coupe of words catch your attention. Leodor and olord. This might be an actual language. You're no expert, but it looks much like Elvish. Hmm. That could fit in with the mention of holiday season.

And of course, there's that "Classified" stamp. Obviously much more recent than the letter itself. It's clearly been in the hands of one agency or another. Smuggled out of Area 51 perhaps? Or maybe placed here on purpose? It's your job to get to the bottom of it. That's what you do here in Pahrump, Nevada, after all.

The receptionist gig is just a cover. The public face of High Desert Press, on the surface a small publishing house specializing in company newsletters and advertising banners for businesses in Las Vegas, an hour back down Highway 95. But that's just a front for Enigma, a civilian agency dedicated to debunking the myths surrounding the mysterious and controversial Area 51, in a remote corner of nearby Nellis Air Force Base, and more importantly, putting the proper spin on some of the more... intriguing truths that can be found there. To that end, you work closely with the government officials, holding the highest security clearance granted to a civilian agent. You've actually been in that subterranean warren of tunnels and offices and laboratories.

Any of the old timers who worked on the Lothlorien Project could tell if it was Elvish. Could be both. A substitution cipher, in Elvish. Your cryptography skills might come in handy. And yes, Elves do exist. How else would Tolkien have had such a knowledge of their language? Along with merfolk and various intelligent extraterrestrial species. The writer of this letter did not appear to be human. But that didn't necessarily mean he was E. T. After all, Elves are as terrestrial as we are, living among us in fact. That didn't mean there wasn't much more to the connection, though.

You blink your eyes and shake off the sudden vision of a warp-drive powered sleigh slipping quietly into a polar vortex. You'd already disproved the hollow-earth theory. Or did you? That train of thought might explain the "something left behind" and the timeline of centuries. On the other hand, you could be way off base. That language could prove to something else entirely.

You examine that book again, with its dark red leather cover and no identifying marks, save for the strange symbol at the bottom of the spine that caught your attention in the first place. Embossed once in gold, it was now so faded as to be barely noticeable. But your keen eyes are attuned to such things.

Scanning once again through the pages, you note that it is handwritten, in flowing cursive, and appears to be a journal of some kind. Intriguing, hand-drawn maps are interspersed here and there. You smile. The thrill of the chase for truth is on. Further investigation is definitely in order. Another thing you notice is that there is no library barcode anywhere. Could present a problem on checkout. With a furtive glance, you see that Mrs. Mcgillicuddy, the librarian, is preoccupied with something on the back desk, facing away from the counter. You are also aware of the security camera, mounted on the ceiling, which seems to be aimed straight down this aisle. Tuning away, you smoothly slip the letter back into the book, and the book beneath your jacket, and make your way calmly to the door.

Stepping out into the crisp December air, you can't help but spot the dark gray Ford Crown Victoria with tinted windows, parked down the street to the left, standing out among the local pickup trucks. As you turn to the right and begin the short walk back to your office, the Crown Vic edges away from the curb. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle as warning bells go off in your head. You quicken your pace...