You wouldn't believe it, that old manor out of the village was ravaged a few days back, I tell you, damned place was a blight, should have burned it years ago, the rotten bit of hell still stands though, I reckon they'd have burned it down. They found loads of books and assorted loot, golden pendants, silverware, dress weapons, things like that. I went last night to see the inside for myself and maybe get something worth a penny or two; since the beast was slain I surmised it to be safe. All I found was some papers, odd story on them, I don't see how a man could live within the same halls of the beast and not live in fear, he doesn't even make mention of the hellish thing. He mentioned the Burnham girl that went missing though.

I suppose this is my home now, this rotted wooden shell. It seems all I have left to do is write. In my current state, aged, weakened, and withering, it seems not a season ago that I was answering the call of the vesper bells and drinking with the jaspers at the Sloshed Train Tavern, strange name that one; the nights I spent for the most part escape me, only smudged and murky images of bar whores and the band's ruckus. Alcohol is a weakness of mine, the burn of a stiff spirit simply cannot be matched, save for a stronger soul in the bottle.

It must make me seem strange, writing to an audience that can't respond or even more probable, may not even exist at all. It seems in recent times that my very life has become a farce, a show imitating what an actual life should be. I rise, drink, write, then sleep, its been this way for... Goodness I can scarcely recall. Its been so lonesome here, once in a while I hear coughing and movements outside my chamber, but never investigate. My will is lacking and my curiosity is hardly piqued by my "neighbor's" movements. Even if I were to I assume it would be as it was when first I came, fruitless and a waste of time. At first I lost sleep worrying and cowing over the sounds and shadows of this old building, but its become common to my senses.

I remember once a man had come by, he seemed quite worried and frightened, he scrambled around the halls looking for something. I'm not as swift as I once was so I tried to keep up and ask him if he needed assistance but he kept on jolting room to room, flinging himself down the corridors and halls, screaming frantically. I was a bit frightened by him in honesty but knew he needed help, I called for him time and again, but he only responded with hollers and wails of terror. It was quite unsettling, after what seemed like hours I lost track of him.

He must have been in some sort of trouble because not a day after, a large group of people came with torches and blades. The group terrified me so I hid away in my wardrobe's crawl space. The anger and violence of their collective forced my choice to hide, less I be subject to their insanity. Maybe the man before was a criminal and they were on the look for him, maybe he is skipping out on a marriage or bar tab? I cast no judgment on him, I only lend my pity. The group seemed to greatly dislike him though, they kept calling out for him in such wicked tongues, calling him names of demons and monsters. Such spite in their voice, so horrid. I don't think they ever found him, they left after a few hours cursing and casting stones at my home as they did so.

Its been a good while since last I wrote, the seasonal storms have ravaged my home, and water has started seeping in, I've had to relocate, scaling those stairs has been such a burden, I don't believe I can take it much longer, and I fear visitors now that my nightly lighting is visible through my window.

It was a dreadful, horrid day, when a visitor came. A young lady it was, she was dressed in a burlap cloak, it seemed crudely stitched and caked in dried mud in places. I first spied her in the main hall between the twin stairs; she had made a peculiar shape out of lit candles and began to chant in a language of which I am not familiar. She read from some book, after which she laid it down and began to shake violently, jerking, twisting, and contorting all the while forcing out phrases and grunts. It was very frightening and strange.

This continued for a good while until my weight shifted and the floor creaked. Her body became still, as if out of fear; sheepishly she called out, "Hello?" For fear of what she may have thought of an old soul like myself spying on her I remained silent. When she began to ascend the stairs, I tried to relegate myself back to my chambers. I hurried, but in vein, she made her way swifter than I could move. I heard a gasp. I turned slowly, an attempt to bide time for excuse making I surmise. Upon her face was a mortified expression, her eyes wide and shaking. I turned to explain myself, but before a word leaves me, she shrieks. The sound pierces me and shakes my core, she turns quickly and makes haste for the main door, but stumbles.

She passed only a few hours ago, I laid here in the subcellar with the caskets that it bore long before my arrival here. Hopefully the water will keep her body from smelling too bad. I'm of no certain religion, but held a moment of silence for her. How I dread visitors.

See? The poor man might've been taken down by the beast before the crowd arrived, but none of us ever found him; strange.

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