My Turn

The accounts that follow were taken from a 150-year old journal, discovered among the antiquities of a mansion that had been undergoing liquidation, as the owner had found no more use of the former abode. From photographs and various items of research, the mansion is best described as being in horrible condition. (Location undisclosed)

Large holes riddled the walls of the first floor, the walls themselves overrun with vines and carpets of moss. The wooden flooring and abandoned furniture exuded decay, the windows themselves missing, most likely stolen. Every wooden door fared the same, and what was most odd was the absence of the staircases leading to the second and third floors.

Now as for the journal, it had only accumulated dust, despite being left for such an extensive period of time. The writing was still discernible, the ink it had been written with remained pristine. Only the first few pages were ever written on, much of the entire journal was completely untouched.

-Beginning of entry-

September 16, 1863

I have recently purchased this journal to better express my personal opinions about what has been transpiring lately; No one else chooses to hear or understand them, as if showing disgust, maybe even fear of sorts. I think it best to divulge my fears, as doing so prevents me from becoming mentally unstable.To begin with, I have lately been believing the notion that an entity, however sinister it may sound, has been stalking me like its prey. I am ultimately afraid of dying a horrible death, even as I am without family. I have not married, nor have had children, all the more that I have nothing to lose and more to fear for myself.

This entity, I am sure he is human...it would be quite in jest if he should be some otherworldy being, yes? Despite my beliefs, this entity still presents a level of threat that cannot be ignored.

This mansion, I wonder, who else lived in it? It had been bequeathed on my father's property, which had been about twenty long years ago. Now he is at peace with mother. Oh, how I wish someone else would come and vanquish this exile of mine! I feel so alone, so vulnerable.

To assure myself, I had bought two pistols yesterday, I can only hope that my aim is true for when it is demanded of me.

September 17, 1863

Today I went to a lovely gathering at Catherine's mansion. It was good to experience companionship for a change, and in the least, I felt it had not been following me, watching...As I write this, it is night. I have positioned my bed in the corner, away from my window, having my pistols beside me, for good measure, that is. The floorboards give a rather unsettling sound, but I assume it is only natural of the wood.

I can hear crickets outside, many of them. What accompanies them is the rustling of grass that keeps me ever awake...

September 18, 1863

The weather has not been generous today. I became soaked even before I could get out of my carriage and into work! I also attempted to put up advertising for anyone who wishes to spend the night or two in my mansion, as I cannot handle my solitude for long. At about twelve noon, I saw it...I knew because I felt it. It did not seem natural that it would be there, visually out of place, yet not one soul but me could see him vividly. It was terrifying.

He has the silhouette of a tall man, about six feet, and wears dark clothes. He wears a bowler hat, similar to mine. What was very uneasy about him was his stare. He had entirely white, oval eyes. God! I admit, I had been close to becoming unconscious upon that malignant stare of his. His skin is pitch black, seemingly painted, hence his suit almost appears as if it were his skin.

September 19, 1863

It is a fortunately warm Saturday. Children are out on the streets, playing, and the ladies are out to go places. Such joy!

As I am writing this, I see this cheerful view of the community, but then I see IT again. It is standing menacingly on a street corner. As I look at it from my window, I feel it is watching me. I see him. My hairs are on end, and I feel vulnerable as ever. To my horror, it looks up at me, and smiles!

His white teeth are extremely visible, contrary to his visage. This frightens me much. How could he have known I was looking at him? What have I done to deserve this wretch stalking me?

I blink my eyes, and he is gone. I cannot perceive how he can move so quickly.

September 20, 1864

I feel sick today, fortunately it is a Sunday. I can rest in peace and hopefully, feel weel tomorrow at work.

Unnerving as it was, I heard footsteps downstairs as I lay weak in my bed. Was I hallucinating? I think not. I heard them vividly, each step sounding as if heavy carpenter's shoes met the wooden flooring. I knew no one else was inside the mansion, hence I thought of taking my pistols. I took aim at the door, and noticed at that point, my hands were shaking unsteadily. I was afraid.

The footsteps stopped downstairs, abruptly. I was still too afraid to put my arms down, for all I knew it was approaching more stealthily at that point. After what had seemed like an eternity, I finally laid back on my bed. I sighed with relief, mainly because I was exhausted and sick.

That damned thing is not going to kill me.

September 21, 1864

Whatever that abomination is, I am not going down without a fight. I woke up today to see that all my furniture had been knocked down, my curtains torn and my food pantries raided, and in an abysmal, animalistic manner. I became frightened once again and dared to stop whoever did this. I collected my pistols and went downstairs once more. I heard rumbling and breaking of ceramics during my descent from the stairs. My fear turned into anger.

I reached the foot of the stairs and the most horrifying sight welcomed me.

It was here. Dressed in black, with that bowler hat and the ever unsettling dark skin. I am most sure he heard me, because once I aimed my guns at it, he turned to me and I saw those demonic eyes, worst of all, it simply smiled...

In one strange move, he simply disappeared. No, he did not fade. It was instantaneous. I feared for my life. I heard a thud behind me, and soon enough I felt a sharp stab run through my shoulder. Only then did I hear it laugh. A maniacal, deep-voiced cackle that could only originate from the depths of hell. From how I had heard it, it was no more than an inch behind me. I felt its breath, warm and moist, and at that my hairs stood on end. I felt it's foot on my back, and as it kicked me, removing the sharp object from my shoulder, it laughed again.

I ran as fast as I could to my room, my pistols lying downstairs. I locked the door, knowing it would not hold him

I am writing this as we speak. Please, to anyone who reads this, if you see "it", kill it immediately. It is not human...no...I

MY TURN

-End of Journal entry-

True to his story, we found the owner's percussion pistols in the dining area, with broken glassware and ceramic scattered all over.

The handwriting of the "MY TURN" is distinctly different from the elegant cursive writing of the owner, and is written rather crudely.