The Journal of Carter Pormon

August the 15th, 1931

Today is a sad day. It is with a heavy heart that I report my dearest grandmother has passed away. I must say I am not shocked, as her illness has been with her for many years (she actually surprised us by living longer than we expected). The family doctor allowed us to see her but one last time before the remains were to be moved to Wickman’s funeral home. I found it hard to look at her, as the illness has caused her to age most awful; she seemed to be nothing more than a shrunken skeleton wearing a coat of skin much too small for her. After we bid our final goodbyes we were informed that the reading of her last will and testament will be tomorrow at her home. I feel strange for some reason.

August the 16th, 1931

It’s nice to know that my grandmother’s illness didn’t keep her from her interests, as painting, upon painting, upon painting lay askew across her walls and even the floor. She told me it was a hobby she had ever since she was young. It seems painting is all she did for the last remaining years of her life, it’s beautiful and tragic, really. We met with the Executor where he read grandmother’s will, and I was surprised to see that she had left me some of her belongings; a crate full of original works and a box full of her childhood toys. Odd. What was even more odd was the last request she made; she asked that her home, upon being emptied of its contents, be burned down. This is all rather odd, but I feel tired now so I will rest.

August the 20th, 1931

I have yet to open the box that I was given, or even glance at the paintings. It has been five days since her death and four since I got the possessions, but for some reason I find it hard to look at their contents. I decided to wait until a week after her death to look inside.

August the 22nd, 1931

It has now been a week since grandmother’s passing, which means I could now look into the contents of the box. Inside were typical things; a stuffed bear, a small piece of silk (likely from a blanket), a toy horse and finally a small diary. Setting aside the box I looked at some of her paintings. Among the selections included various pieces of flowers, a self portrait, and a painting of her childhood home. There was, however, one painting that caught my eye; it was an incomplete painting (I assume, being that it was not colored) that depicted a tunnel, with a crumbling road running through it to the other side. There was something inside the tunnel, a tall figure standing there. That is what I thought it was, at least, being that it was smudged. The piece was entitled simply “The Home.” I wonder what that is supposed to mean, I never understood why people name their paintings.

August the 25th, 1931

The family held a meeting today to discuss grandmother’s last request. We were split down the middle about whether or not we should actually follow her wish. Mother refused to allow the burning of the home she grew up in and Uncle Jordan believes we should do her bidding. I for one am having conflict figuring out why she would want to rid the world of such a beautiful home…

August the 26th, 1931

I haven’t the slightest idea as to what to do with these paintings.

August the 30th, 1931

Uncle Jordan and Aunt Susan finally managed to convince my mother to let them burn down grandmother’s house. We shall spend all of tomorrow moving out the rest of her possessions. I really don’t feel like doing all that work, but I guess it is the least I can do.

August the 31st, 1931

Spent all of the day moving the things out of grandmother’s house. It is hard to believe one woman could own so many things. We may have to spend another day finishing up the rest. And to think I could be reading right now.

September the 1st, 1931

Finally managed to move everything out. Grandmother’s painting habits were a bit extreme, so I believe. We removed at least 15 different crates, all filled with her paintings. Must have really wanted to preoccupy her thoughts.

September the 2nd, 1931

Currently making preparations for the house burning. As of now it should be happening sometime tomorrow night, though the family is still unsure. Uncle Jordan also decided to store some of the crates of paintings in our basement.

September the 3rd, 1931

At around 7:30 this night, grandmother’s house was set ablaze. The flames lit up the next sky as her home slowly started to turn into ruin. Mother was sobbing to herself, but eventually had to look to the shoulder of Uncle Jordan to keep herself firm. Such a strange request after death, even more strange I could have sworn I heard the faint sounds of screaming. I think it must be from all the world I have been doing. My mind needs to rest. I stayed for another hour before returning home to sleep.

September the 4th, 1931

After nearly three weeks after my grandmother’s death, everything is back to normal for the Promon family. Now perhaps I will have some time to read my books.

September the 8th, 1931

Now that I have a lot of free time, it isn’t hard to finish a book at a fast pace. This morning I started reading “The War of the Worlds” by H.G. Wells and finished it no more than a few minutes ago. I know it is a work of fiction, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if events like that could actually happen? It sounds demented, but it certainly would bring back some interest to this otherwise boring world.

September the 10th, 1931

I finished yet another book this evening. It was called “The Time Machine” (also by H.G. Wells). It’s about this man that invents a machine that can go forwards and backwards through time and his adventures of doing so. The best part was when he went to the future and encountered a group of these horrid creatures that lived below the surface of the earth. Is it odd that these kind of things fascinate me?

September the 11th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Today I ventured around the house to find another book to read. I cannot believe the lack of books we have here, and any of the books we do own I have already read. I decided to go into the basement with the small chance that there may be a book or two down there. As I went down, all I could see were the crates of paintings we were given. Needless to say, there weren’t any books down here, but I was bored and decided to look through some of the paintings. Pretty much all of them were the same (Flowers, various wild life, self-portraits). However, as I looked through them I came across a rather disturbing painting. The painting was of this horrible creature. It had a long, slender body with grayish, tight looking skin. The skin was so tight looking that in some places bones were protruding from tears in the skin. The arms were also rather long, and at the end of both arms were claws. The two inner claws were quite short, while the two outer were extremely long. The legs were just the same, but they were a tad bit longer. Its head was much like a human’s, but came to me as the most horrid part of this creature; one of its eyes were missing, and the other appeared to be popping from its very socket. Its mouth resembled an ant’s, as pincher-like mandibles took the place of an ordinary mouth. Growing from its head was a fleshy-bone like growth that could best be described as a halo of sorts. Finally, on its back were a pair of wings much like an angel’s, except they were very skeletal and decaying. The title of the painting read, “The Resident”.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">September the 12th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">It was hard to sleep last night. My dreams were haunted by the tunnel from the painting. And that creature… that horrible thing was in my dreams as well. It was standing inside of the tunnel, only staring at me and remaining completely still. It didn’t even breathe. I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, and failed to fall back asleep. What nightmare is this? I think I have been reading too many books. But it did give me some time to think, and I believe the two paintings may relate in some manner.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">September the 13th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Damned paintings, I slept horribly last night. Once again, nightmares plagued by the tunnel and that creature filled my mind. The dream was almost the same, except this time the details of the tunnel appeared to be finer. I noticed strange markings were painted in red inside the tunnel, marking I have never seen before. Also, the creature took but one step forward the entire dream, but stood still the remaining time. It wasn’t a silent dream either. Unlike the previous dream, there was noise coming from inside the tunnel, but I am unsure if it was coming from the creature itself. The sound sounded much like a whisper coming from a man, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Perhaps he was speaking in tongues, I cannot say for sure. The trouble these paintings is causing is unbelievable. My poor grandmother must have been quite mad when conjuring up these paintings.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">September the 14th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I didn’t dream at all last night. Perhaps this is a good thing.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">September the 15th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">One month ago today my grandmother passed away. Once again, I did not dream.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">September the 18th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I haven’t had a nightmare for a few days now. I think this is due to the fact that I have found something else to read to preoccupy my thoughts. I have been reading my grandmother’s diary from when she was a child (both out of curiosity and for the fact that we have no other reading material in the house). I cannot say it is anything worth of interest yet. It skips around a bit with the entires because some of the pages appear to have been torn out. Probably not missing out on much, she led a very normal life.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">September the 20th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Found an entry in my grandmother’s diary that made me laugh. It details something embarrassing that happened to her on July the 5th, 1872.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">“Went for a walk with Rose today, when I tripped over a rock and fell face-down into a mud puddle. If that wasn’t bad enough, the neighbor boys started laughing at me and calling me a “negro” because of the mud on my face. I ran home crying.”

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Is it bad if I said that made me laugh?

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">September the 24th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Today marks my 19th birthday, and as childish as it may sound I was really excited to see that I had a couple gifts to open. The first wasn’t really worth mentioning, just a pair of wool socks. An “adult” gift from my mother, but it is better than nothing. However, the second gift (which I got from Uncle Jordan) was simply amazing; a collection of stories by Edgar Allen Poe. Finally! I have something else to read. I may still read my grandmother’s diary, as it usually does provide some entertainment.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">September the 26th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Just got finished reading “The Cask of Amontillado”, and it must have been the most twisted thing I have ever read. It’s about this man who is attending a party being thrown by one of his friends. He keeps offering his friend more and more wine, and eventually his friend gets really drunk. He leads his drunk friend into the cellar of his castle and tricks him into going into this room, where he then chains up his friend and starts to seal him in this room with bricks! I guess it was Poe’s way of saying we all have secrets sealed up somewhere. I don’t think I’ll ever read anything more twisted than that.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">September the 27th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Started reading my grandmother’s diary again. Usually I wouldn’t report anything on the matter in this journal, but there was something that grabbed my attention in one of her entires. The entry itself wasn’t very entertaining at all, but this piece of the passage was worth noting.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">“…went for another walk with Rose today. She told me that this walk was going to be different… we went down to the tunnel, even though we were told by our parents not to. We went anyway, and it turned out to be really fun! We might go back there again.”

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">It turns out this tunnel from her painting exists.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">September the 30th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">The nightmares are coming back. This time they are more extreme, more disturbing. The creature was standing in the tunnel again, but it was covered from head to toe in a crimson looking substance, the symbols on the tunnel walls were seeping with the same substance, flowing down into the passing stream on the left-hand side of the tunnel. I heard weeping and soon screaming from the tunnel as the creature disappeared. When he came back, a bloodied young girl slumped by it on the ground. It held in its claws entrails, and soon ate them with his pincers as the screaming went on. Then it started walking closer and closer to me… but then I woke up.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">What in God’s name does this all mean?

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 3rd, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I haven’t slept a week since the last nightmare I had, and through all the pain and suffering of insomnia I must say I am feeling a bit euphoric. Being relieved from my sleeping habits has caused me to become fidgety, so to keep myself under control I usually read a lot from my grandmother’s diary. I find myself laughing at everything, even things that shouldn’t be found funny. This morning at breakfast mother was talking about grandmother’s house and the mounds of ash and burnt wood that still reside in that location. I snickered at first but began laughing uncontrollably. I couldn’t help myself for some reason, and I must have really upset my mother because she couldn’t bear to look at me for the rest of the day.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 4th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I’ve been writing rhymes lately, I find it quite amusing. I call this one, “The October Dreamer”

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Today is the 4th of October. October the 4th is today I wanted to fall asleep, but there was a price to pay To fall asleep means fear, to fear is to fall asleep So I stay awake, for Heaven’s sake, and pray for my soul to keep

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 6th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I was reading my grandmother’s diary today, and I stumbled across an entry I really wish I hadn’t. It was more frightening and twisted than anything Mr. Poe could have ever created.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">“August the 15th, 1874

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Dearest Diary,

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Something most awful has occurred that I can’t really bear to write it down on your pages. As I told you earlier, I haven’t seen Rose in nearly a week. I guess I wasn’t the only one, because her parents and family also didn’t see her. I had a suspicion that she was probably running away from home (as she told me she has also been keen about the idea), but I never really thought she would do it. If only she did, it would have met her with a much better fate than what really came of her. Mister Pinnte (the farmer from the other side of town) was on his way to the market today, and as he was going through the tunnel he discovered Rose. I hold back tears as I write this because he didn’t find her alive… he said he found her on the road, covered in blood. As he was telling Rose’s parents, they started crying and Rose’s father was even crying. I tried listening to everything that Mister Pinnte was saying, but my mother kept pulling me aside and trying to get me to not listen to what he was saying. The only other thing I could make out from his speech was, “Your poor little girl… gutted… wildcat, I dunno… I’m sorry”. I don’t know what I am going to do.”

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I thought to myself a lot after I read that passage, and something just hit me at that moment with her paintings. The painting of the tunnel was entitled, “The Home” and the horrible creature was titled, “The Resident.” Was she trying to say something was lurking in that tunnel?

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 8th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I ventured back into the basement earlier today to retrieve the two paintings. I have decided that I will move the paintings into my bedroom. I figured if I am not going to sleep, I might as well use my time wisely and look into this case. From what I gathered in my grandmother’s diary this tunnel in her painting was something from her childhood and does indeed exist, and quite obviously the figure in the middle must have been an incomplete version of the creature she painted. I have been getting quite sick lately as well. Perhaps it is from the lack of sleep, but there is some strange feeling to this sickness that is makes me feel as if there is something more to it. I think too much, my mind is uneasy. Maybe I should try to sleep tonight.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 9th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">What a fool I was to think that would actually help. Not surprisingly, my night was filled with absolute terror and disturbance as another nightmare struck my dreams mercilessly. To date, this has been the worst of the nightmares I have had, and I am noticing that they are only getting worse every night, however, this nightmare started off differently. The first thing I saw was a darkened house on a lonesome hill in some unknown territory, and soon I could see inside of it. There were candles lit everywhere. On the floor in this room was a much larger version of one of the symbols I had seen in one of my first nightmares, and this time it was quite obviously written in blood. Then, coming from one of the darkened rooms was a strange man dressed in robes, holding in his arms the limp corpse of a child. Slowly, he walked to the symbol on the floor and dropped the body down. With black eyes, he looked forward before pulling forth a knife from his garb. It was then that he used the knife and carved into his arms many of the strange markings I saw before, resting looking the blood from the blade as he set it down. Suddenly, he transformed into that horrible creature and gutted open the child and began feasting on her. I wish I could say this meant something, but at this point I think I might simply be going mad.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 10th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Today I discovered something about the paintings. While observing them earlier today, I noticed on the painting of the tunnel there was a small piece of the canvas sticking out from the frame. Upon trying to place it back into the wooden frame, I accidentally caused a small tear in the painting. While I was trying to repair it, I discovered there was something written on the back of the canvas. It was a simple date, marked August the 15th, 1921. On the painting of the creature I noticed the same problem, so I did the same to it. Once again, there was a date scribbled into the back of the canvas; August 15th, 1930. The date of August 15 appears to be playing a strong role in this twisted mystery, as on August the 15th Rose was found dead, and it was when my grandmother died. On top of that, she also painted both of these works on that day. Either this is important or it is nothing more than a coincidence, but for now I will add that to my notes.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 11th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Today I went for a walk around the town when something strange happened to me. I walked passed where my grandmother’s house once stood and I swear I heard the sound of someone chanting. Looking around, however, there was no one there but myself. I have no idea why, but I walked up to the remains of her home and walked amongst the ashes for a bit. It was there that I stumbled upon a peculiar sight; among one of the many piles of ash I found two bi-colored feathers (gray and white).

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 12th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">This morning I asked my mother about my grandmother and where she grew up. I think she has forgotten all about that embarrassing incident at breakfast some time ago, and she rambled on and on about what she was told about her mother’s childhood. According to my mother, she was raised in a small farming town called Peosta. I took that opportunity to interrupt her rambling by asking her if she ever visited the town. She said she had once, back when she was a little girl. I then asked her if she remembered if there was a tunnel in the town and she replied by saying she vaguely remembers there being one. Final confirmation that this damned tunnel exists. Finally, I asked her where this town was, to which she said it was about 10 miles out of town. I think I may be planning a trip rather soon.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 18th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Yesterday I departed for the town of Peosta. It was rather easy to convince my mother in allowing me to do so, as I said I always wanted to see where my grandmother grew up. However, I did find it hard to find a way of getting to the town, as my family felt no need to invest in an automobile. Luck was on my side, though, as a friend of the family said he was on his way to Peosta for undisclosed business and he allowed me to ride along with him. We arrived in Peosta late in the afternoon, and my first task was trying to find a place to stay. I managed to find a small inn where I put up for one night’s stay (I don’t want to be here any longer than I need be). Afterward I figured it best to take a walk around town to take a look at things. I found the residents of Peosta to be quite friendly in nature, and many of them appeared to be happy-going. The elderly also seem to be plentiful, which is wonderful as it gives me more opportunity to find out more about this town’s past (I plan on interviewing a couple of the residents tomorrow). Oddly enough, however, throughout my stroll of this town I did not come across the tunnel from my grandmother’s painting. It is essential that I ask the older residents about this tomorrow.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 19th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I woke up this morning quite early, as to get as much done today as I possibly could. I skipped breakfast altogether and ventured to the heart of the town to begin my investigation. I spotted an elderly man sitting on a public bench and seized this opportunity to ask him a few questions. He was more than happy to oblige (this people never seem to hesitate to cooperate). The first thing I asked him was if he grew up in this town, to which he said yes. The next question I asked was if he remembered a girl by the name of Olivia Wilder (my grandmother). He had to think awhile, but he said yes again (“We went to school together,” he said). I continued to ask him about her childhood; if she led a normal life or acted suspicious at times. The man stated that for the most part she was a normal girl, but noted one thing he remembered about her; he mentioned that whenever she walked home from school, she looked around the surroundings and her eyes moved furiously. “It was like she was watching for someone. And she never walked home alone, she always made someone walk with her.” I thanked him for his time and bid him goodbye.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I found another person walking down the street and decided to ask them about the town’s past (in particular, if it had any unusual happenings). The elderly woman said that for the most part the town was a pretty quiet place. She did bring up the death of Rose, however. I asked her if she knew anything about her strange death, to which she hesitantly said yes. I didn’t think twice to ask her, and for the next few moments there was only silence. Eventually she went into the few details she could remember.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">“I was only fourteen at the time, but I paid attention to all the town gossip. Apparently this poor girl was found in Satan’s tunnel, gutted open. I even thought I heard that there were bite marks on her flesh. It was just awful. Some thought she was murdered, but eventually they put it down as a wild-life attack.”

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I went on to ask her why the tunnel was given that name, but she avoided the question. I could see in her eyes that she felt extremely uncomfortable talking about this, so I asked her one final question; what did she believe actually happened to Rose. She looked away from me, her eyes motionless.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">“There are some evils that lurk in this world that are best left undiscussed, and whatever it is you are trying to look for, I can assure you it is best to leave it alone.”

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I tried thanking her for her time but she hurried off.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I returned to the inn soon after I conducted the interview with the elderly woman, as I was feeling rather tired. It looks like I am going to have to put up for another night here, as my job is nowhere near done here.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 20th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Once again I woke up early, too early as a matter of fact, as I was the only person awake in the entire inn. Understandable for five in the morning, but I couldn’t fall back asleep. I wandered into the main lobby of the inn and to my surprise the inn keeper was wide awake, looking at me with a smile on his face. He greeted me with a good morning, and I did the same to him. Not really much of an ice-breaker, but I soon found myself having a conversation with the man (about various topics, such as the weather, baseball, etc). After talking for a few minutes, I decided to ask him if he knew anything about the so-called, “Satan’s Tunnel.” I figured he wouldn’t, as he looked much younger than the other two I had interviewed previously, but he took interest in what I asked. He said he did know of the tunnel, and that it was something of legend in this area. He mentioned that when he was a kid the adults would talk about the tunnel and tell stories as a way of getting the children to keep distance from it. When I asked if he could tell me the tale, he said he would try.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">“I’m a little rusty, but it went something like this. There was once a man that was a resident of the town many years ago, back when it was first established. He was known simply as Arthur, and he was known to practice the dark arts. It was a hobby of his, or a way of life. Anyway, he lived in this house near this old tunnel, and its said that he used the tunnel as a ritual ground. Mad as a hatter, he scrawled these satanic symbols into the walls of the tunnel with a mysterious substance and would perform countless satanic acts in the tunnel in the late hours of the night. One day, this guy was doing another one, but this time it was more extreme; the ritual required the sacrifice of a life of an innocent. So Arthur kidnapped a little girl, brought her to the tunnel and killed her. The people of the town found out what he did and formed a mob to kill Arthur, but when they got to his house he was long gone. Never found him. Anyway, I didn’t but the story for one minute and when I was a kid I went to that tunnel all the time.”

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I asked him if he could tell me the location of the tunnel, and he was more than happy to tell me. According to him, the tunnel resides half a mile, south east of the town. He also informed me that the tunnel has since been closed, and the road leading to it blocked off. That won’t stop it, I’m much too close to let that happen.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 21st, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I didn’t end up going to the tunnel last night as I was much to nervous to do so. However, I have worked up the nerve and I shall go there this afternoon. I pray that I find nothing unusual.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I trekked through the town and made my way to the tunnel, as promised. It turns out the inn keeper spoke the truth, as the road leading to the tunnel was blocked off with a rusted gate that had a sign reading, ROAD CLOSED. No matter, I hopped over it and continued on. The road was surrounded by a thicket of woods on both sides, and as I walked down it I can’t help but have a strange feeling that I am being watched. I keep hearing the sounds of faint footsteps in the distance, but it is probably nothing more than the echo of my own. However, as I continued down the road I heard a strange noise. It sounded like a wild animal was feasting on another, but it still disturbed me. Finally, in my sights was the tunnel from the painting. It looked exactly like the painting, as a matter of fact. I slowly made my way into the tunnel and looked around at the walls. There were no odd symbols, in fact, there wasn’t anything on the walls at all. The only thing I saw was black paint lining the walls. Upon closer inspection, however, I noticed there was a chip in the wall and as I peeled at it I came across the faint remains of one of the strange markings. The tunnel must have been repainted at some point. As I made my way through the tunnel, an even more frightening sight fell onto my eyes; there was a house looming no more than 100 feet from the tunnel. As I exited the tunnel, I noticed something glimmering on the left hand wall; a crimson looking substance was slowly seeping down the wall. It is with great fear that I report the sight of a freshly painted symbol on the wall. As the fear continues to build inside me, I have to remind myself I still have yet to investigate the house.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I managed to make my way towards the ancient house via a beaten trial. The house, indeed, appeared to be abandoned. As I took a look around the outside confines of the home I discovered that there tracks leading to the front door I previously didn’t notice. These tracks unsettle me; five marks formed each of these tracks: a long line on the outer left hand side, followed by a much shorter inner left, followed by another shorter inner right, followed by a long line on the outer right, all around a square base that formed the sole of the track. The evil is around me.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Courageously I opened the front door and entered this house that could only be described as the home of some hellish creature. Candles lay askew all around the floors and other higher surfaces in this darkened room, the wax still dripping from some of them. There was one lone bookshelf in this room, and upon inspecting its contents I find there to be numerous books of unknown origin. The titles in languages I have never seen before. Opening one of the books I found various pictures detailing the symbols I have been seeing in my dreams and the one I saw inside of the tunnel earlier. There is no doubt about it; the inn keeper’s story of the man known as Arther was true. I suspect this man summoned this hellish creature using one of these ancient books, but he lived nearly 100 years ago. There is no possible way for this man to still be alive, which leads me to believe this creature may be here on its own terms.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">As I was about to leave the house, I spotted something familiar hanging on one of the walls of this cursed house; there on the wall hung a painting of the tunnel, a piece of the canvas torn apart revealing the date to be August the 15th, 1921. There were four holes punctured into the painting. My God… this creature was in my house.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Suddenly I heard a strange noise coming from outside, and when I ran outside the door I discovered feathers falling softly towards the ground. These were the same feathers I saw in the ashes of my grandmother’s home. The thing knew I was here and must have taken off. It was then that I started to run as fast as I could towards the town. In a matter of seconds I was already back inside of the tunnel when I saw yet another horror; the walls were now covered in the strange markings, the crimson-looking fluid dripping and flowing into the stream below. Out the corner of my eye I saw something on the ground by the tunnel exit. As I got closer, I realized yet another fear…it was the bloody shoe of a child (judging by size). There is no doubting anymore, this thing is hunting once again, just like he hunted Rose many years before.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">As soon as I got back into town, I found the place to be in chaos. Groups of people were running around in panic, shouting out the name “Taylor” over and over again. Women were weeping as the people searched around the town for this little boy. I heard a crazed man shouting at the others of what he saw, rambling about the angel sweeping down and taking the boy into the country. One of the others hit the man in the face and beat him repeatedly. This man perhaps wasn’t quite so crazed, but it wasn’t an angel bringing this child to salvation. After a short while I managed to find a ride back to my home. I hope I am not too late… God help me if I am.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">It was the late hours of the night by the time I got back to my home. I noticed that my house was completely dark, save for the flickering of a candle coming from the back room. Extremely odd, we never use candles in our house. As I walked up to the front door I saw that it was actually opened… and to make matters more horrid, there were long slashes on the woodwork, the door knob missing. Looking down I saw the same trackings I saw at the Arthur house. I feared for the worst. I entered my home without any form of weapon and crept my way in. I made my way for the back room with the candle. The closer I got, the more my heart pounded in my chest. Certainly this creature was at my home, but when? I cannot say. It could have struck the moment I left for Peosta. My thoughts were interrupted when into my sights came absolute shock and horror. I had made it to the back room, and though it was dimly lit by a sole candle I could just make out the slumped body of my mother, or at least part of her. There was a pool of blood surrounding the upper half of her body, and there lay empty space where her head should have been. She was lying down on her stomach, and on her back I noticed that strips of her flesh were filleted off her, but I didn’t see them in the room at all. The creature must have been feasting on her… I struggled to keep back my spasms but I vomited shortly after. It was then that I heard the noise; the noise I had heard three times before. It sounded like sharpened objects being dragged across a stone surface. Putting it all together, I realized that the creature was still here, in the cellar of my home.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I didn’t hesitate to make my way toward the cellar door and quickly slam and lock it. There was the quick sound of the scratching across the stone below, and I knew that the creature had heard me. I could hear it clawing its way up the stairs, and I knew I didn’t have much time to come up with a plan, but I would by lying if I said I had a strategy as to what to do next. It was then that I remembered that we still had in our possession a few spare canisters of the kerosene we had used to set ablaze grandmother’s house. I made haste to the garage and counted about five canisters, this was more than enough for what I needed. I grabbed two of them and made my way up the stores. I opened one of the canisters and quickly poured out its contents all over the floor of the second story, the second canister I had splashed on the walls and along the stairs as I ran back down. By now the creature had made it to the cellar door and was clawing away frantically at the woodwork. Such a horrendous noise struck my ears as he did so, and I knew it would only be a matter of time before he cut the door from its hinges. Grabbing two more of the canisters, I ran to random rooms on the first story and splashed the kerosene around, all around the furniture and walls.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Making my way to the back room I poured at least a third of the fourth canister on the corpse of my mother (she died tragically, but I didn’t want anyone to see her quite like this). I ran the remaining kerosene in the fourth canister in a line that connected the fuel with the pools on the stairs. The clawing continued, soon he would be out. Finally, I grabbed the last canister and made my way to the cellar door. The hellish creature had cut a large hole out of the door… looking through it I saw for the first time the creature’s face; staring back at me was but one eye, nearly popping from its socket, it seems. Its pinchers were frantically working as it let out a loud, ominous screech that nearly caused me to collapse from pain. I maintained composure and splashed some of the fuel on the door and creature, and as soon as I started walking around one of its fiendish claws made contact with my arms, and as I felt the warmth of blood running down I knew a large gash was created. I poured out the last of the fuel in a line leading out to the front yard, as the screeching continued. It was then that I heard the sound of the cellar door breaking down. Quickly, I grabbed for the matchbook in my pocket and struck a flame, throwing it down onto the line.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">It all happened so quickly.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">The line of fuel lit up as the flame quickly shot down the path of kerosene I had created. As the flame traveled on, I took one last look into the house I had grown up in. I saw standing just a little way from the doorway the dark angel from hell, its claws swinging away frantically at the walls around them. It stood there, gazing upon me as it let out a final screech. It flung its wings up, and as the flames began to fan around it, the feathers began to fall. I stared on and watched as the house was consumed by the fire, and the last I saw of that creature was it staring back at me as the house slowly began to collapse. I stayed there for nearly two hours, watching my childhood home burn to the ground, lighting up the next sky. And as I did so, I could have sworn I heard the faint sounds of screaming coming from the house.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">October the 28th, 1931

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">I should have mentioned at some point in the previous entry that I had been writing my accounts of visiting the cursed town of Peosta from a padded room in the Whittingham Mental Institution. You may be asking yourself what I mean by all of this, and I will explain.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">A week ago, I made my final confrontation with the hellish dark angel, and destroyed it by burning down my home with it. I stayed with my house until morning, watching as the ashes blew away in the wind. It was a little afterward that my Uncle Jordan discovered me sitting on the ground watching all this, and he tried talking to me, asking me what happened. He shook me madly, but all I said to him was, “I ended it.” He looked like he had mixed emotions to what I meant, and when he managed to get a hold of the fire department and put out the remaining flames, they came across the corpse of my late mother. It was then that they sent me here, to this institution for the mentally insane. I should have known that they wouldn’t understand, and I even told them everything that has happened to me in these last two months. They didn’t believe a ward of it, and instead locked me up in this damned room. Surprisingly, they let me keep my journal and a pen to allow me to write. They hoped that at some point I would write something that might say that I killed my mother, though it isn’t true. The beast that killed her is long gone, and that is good enough for me. I can finally be at peace.

<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px;">Being locked up in this room for a full week has given me some time to think. I discovered that fate can be a very cruel and very unfair thing in life, but we all have to face the troubles we meet along the way and keep pushing forward. Also, upon writing this, I remember that one cannot run from fate. I make this realization just now, as no more than one minute ago did two bi-colored, slightly singed feathers float through the high window that resided in my room. And as I sit here in this room, writing this entry in my journal, I hear the familiar sound of scratching on a stone surface coming from just outside the window.