Fingers tracing the journal’s cloth cover I wandered to the kitchen. Food seemed a possible remedy to the gnawing in my gut, though my minded chided me for such naive foolishness. Encumbering as it was, the book did not leave my hand while I prepared a simple meal, cheese and crackers with a small bit of meat.

The wooden table by the kitchen offered me little company. Warmly glowing candles gave little solace. Closed or not, the journal and its last eleven pages filled me with a quiet dread.

Eleven pages, barely skimmed so great was the horror therein, mocked my cowardice, taunting me to read further and fully. Eleven pages, scrawled by a hand afright, teased with answers to questions I’d rather not have asked. Eleven pages, at my very fingertips, held the secrets of a home I thought I knew.

Food untouched, I read on.

The passing of the fever afforded me some reprieve, a few days time to doubt my own experience. The coming chill of October brought dark days indeed and darker nights still…