Entry 11

I’ve been fighting it, but I have gotten sleep. What I have fallen in to has been short and unfulfilling, though. I’m afraid I must surrender soon, or I will lost all mental capacity. My mind is quickly losing its ability to focus and perceive sensations. Even now, I cannot fully enamor myself with my diary. Its as if everything I turn to begins to move farther from me. If only slumber didn’t mean succumbing to the darkness. If only I could some how retain awareness and security without the attention of my mind. But such are mere fantasies. I must face reality – a mortal reality.

Though my attention is often detached at best, I have managed to read on through some of my other books. One story that continues to strike me every new development is the story I spoke of previously. The young Raven has now become a teenager after hiding away with the seer for many years. He reminds me of myself when I was his age in fact. When I was hopeful; when I was ambitious; when I was loved. His adventures spark a longing, a longing too close to home. He battles with bandits. He fights evil and tyranny. I still remember clearly the days when my father and I would sit around the hearth and he would recall tales of his adventures. Tales of his own battles and chivalry. Why must I see him in everything when I cannot see him?

Though the darkness lingers, I must make an attempt to rejuvenate myself. I am too feeble from depravation and starvation. I must sleep.

Entry 10 (3 days later)

Every day brings the same misery and loneliness. No longer can I consciously distinguish time. Memories have blurred together, as if they all occurred simultaneously. I can only recall what happened, but the ability to place events chronologically has failed me.

I’ve regressed to reading. Everything. I’ve completely read through the previously mentioned encyclopedia of the undead: the Norman- and Necronomicon. The curiosity that drove me when I commenced my studies hasn’t faded, but upon completion, a sensation swept over me. It felt as though a raging, furious power coursed through me. I felt emboldened, empowered, but it was in some way different. The feeling was not one of a warrior, bloodthirsty and preparing for battle, but more as though something was taking control. Some lecherous hand was tying strings to my body and preparing to use me like a puppet. I felt compelled to delve into these magics, to satisfy my thirsty curiosity. I knew if I attempted I would succeed. I knew it, I could feel it; I could feel the power! But how would I know now that these spells I cast would look to me as master? No. I could sense the puppeteer whispering these temptations in my ear, waiting for the opportunity to seize control of my powers and constructs and use them to his designs; and I stayed my hand, to keep him, and my destiny, in check. As fleeting and evanescent as it was, the eldritch uniqueness of those moments spurs my curiosity and fear, even now, after what feels like ages since that event.

I haven’t slept, but I’ve seen the sun do that which I have not. I dread the hour in which I must return to my quarters. I hope to simply collapse where I am, to succumb to unconsciousness in an instant. To erase the sounds of my actions and allow the terrors of the shadows to creep forth again to haunt my bedside - I could not bare another night of such a fate. Even during the night, I do not allow the darkness to crawl forth in to my study like a resurrected corpse claws its way to the surface upon the hours of darkest night and most vile evil. No. Light is the only aegis I hold against this unseen terror which stalks me like my shadow, and I will not allow it to be swallowed up by the maw of madness and depravity. And so, I remain here, scarcely eating, barely awake, biding the hours until I can breathe easily. Only the sun can bring me solace.

It is purely a hypothesis at this point, but from current events I believe my posit to be true. The impalpable foe of my chess game has not made a move, even during the rare instances when I depart from the walls of my alcove. I can only believe that he is another of the dark demons that stalk the tenebrous corners of my silent estate, emerging only when I retreat to my chambers. I want dreadfully for us to continue our match, but I cannot surrender to this shadowy adversary my shield, even under the tenuous pact of our match. Still, my weary mind cannot help but ponder strategies and muse over outcomes.

Only to visit my father’s grave have I freed myself from the confines of the study. The grey tombstone growing bleaker each passing day, I find myself even more depressed at its sight. Exposed to the weather, the veneer protecting the slab from the elements and forces has become transient under their power, fading away. Much like mine own.

Entry 9

Again, last night, the air was filled with the unceasing, furious clawing. I don’t even recall the commencement. It was as if the sound had always been there, hiding under the noise of everyday activity. I do remember, though, the first instant I could comprehend the noise I was hearing, I turned on the gas on the lamp I had placed on my nightstand. Even with the flame lit and orange light cast about the room, the noise did not stop. It didn’t even hesitate. It sounded as if it originated within the room, but no being was present. This wouldn’t be nearly as frightening if my room wasn’t at a corner of the house and bordered on three sides by the out-of-doors. Seeing the futility, and hoping to return to the placebo feeling of safety given by my bed, I turned off the lamp and returned underneath the covers. The scratching never stopped.

Not entirely unexpectedly, my opponent is still participating in our chess match. In response to his Pawn to D-6, I’ve moved my bishop adjacent to my king, to C-4. Strangely, the presence that commands the black pieces does not frighten or worry me. The more I ponder our competition, the more I accept this phenomenon as almost commonplace. As disturbing as I know I should find both my acceptance and the actual presence of another somewhere on the premises, I find that I am not perturbed in any way. I don’t know if I should be scared simply because of this, either.

My father’s grave was unusually unhelpful. Much like the home that I live in, my father’s grave has fallen silent, and no longer provides me with any contentment. I resent this. I don’t want my father to be silenced like all that surrounds me. The only thing I ever hear anymore is the scratching on the walls and my own movements. I haven’t spoken a word since Charles left. I need someone to talk to. I need my father.

Entry 8

Last night was abhorrent and terrifying. After I extinguished the flame of my candle I attempted to return to my slumber, but would not be grated such a privilege. The noise that I believed to be the penning of my quill was not of that origin. Throughout the night the sound of incessant clawing at the walls filled my ears. The more disturbing part was that the sound possessed no distinct origin; rather it seemed to be exuded from all directions. After an hour or so passed, I finally drifted off to sleep. I wish I had an explanation, but my ability to reason and analyze the situation and the finer details was clouded by my overbearing terror at the time.

More startling than this, though is the peculiar state in which I found my study this morning. When I woke up, I quickly moved in to the site, seeking an immediate sense of security after last night’s events. All of the objects and books remained exactly as I had left them; as expected. The odd case was the chess board that I had left on its designated table. I distinctly remember moving only one piece last night and I double checked my suspicions to be correct using this text. What was puzzling was that in addition to the white piece that I had moved, a black piece had also been moved. Knight to C-6.

I spent the first portion of the day monitoring the chess set. So many questions have arisen. How was this piece moved? How could they have gotten in here without my notice? Could this be related to the mystery phantom I encountered the other day? Are the clawing noises related to this in any way? But the one question that burned in my brain, more so than any other, I should be regarding as the least important – what will my next move be? After long deliberation, I loosely defined a strategy in my mind. Knight to H-3.

Following my mandate, I returned to the area in which I had sighted the man. There was no notable change in any way, but I would not be deterred. I closely examined places where I believed he had walked and where he would have walked if he had continued on his path. The path I had used on that day was a route I did not typically traverse, and since then I had not used it. Sprawled across the hallway that he moved through was an old carpet. One of the things I searched for were disturbances in the carpet thread’s alignment. I found none that would correlate with the man’s footsteps. Reexamining the room he had entered I took great care not to overlook any details or disturb any objects, yet I still found nothing that would point to his existence in any way, shape or form. This was truly a mystery.

Unbeknownst to me, the day was already fading into night when I had finally given up my investigation. I hadn’t even visited my father’s grave and the sun had already retreated too far to grant me proper sight. Tomorrow I would have to make up for lost time. What was even more startling was that I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day and I felt no tinge of hunger. To ensure my health I opted to forcibly eat something before I went to bed. I can only imagine what tomorrow will hold.

Entry 7 (Sometime Later Than Night)

The date is currently unknown to me, as I have awoken at a time straddling yesterday and tomorrow. The realm beyond my bedroom window is blacker than the coals in my fireplace. There is an eerie silence at this hour, but I suppose this is a product of the night.

I know not the reason for my midnight disturbance, but I suddenly awoke only minutes ago with my wits about me as if it were the hour of the sun’s triumph. My ears twitch at the slightest creak. The sound of my quill is so comparably loud that it seems to scratch at the paper like nails on the wall.

My thoughts return to the man that I saw earlier. The memory of my fleeting encounter with him is disproportionably well remembered. As I attempt to recall other events of yesterday, they seem to blend together. The entire day I remember only as a whole; except that event. I’ve reread my previous entry and not even the notes that I’ve left behind reimburse my decayed memory. Only that event, do I remember. In the morn, I’ve resolved to more thoroughly investigate this matter. There is no way his existence was hallucinatory.

Since the beginning of my recollection the air has gained a notable eldritch quality. The feeling is not that of a draft. The air doesn’t even feel as though it has any turbulence. Yet it seems as though the warmth has faded and replaced with a paranormal chill. Even as I hold my fingers to the tip of my candle’s flame, I feel no heat. I wish greatly to return to the comfort of my bed, but my eyes feel not the strain of a weary day. Despite this, I will attempt speed the arrival of the morn. Hopefully the sheets will provide me protection from this unearthly chill.

Entry 6

The oddest thing happened while commuting from my study to the kitchen. Down the hall I swear that I saw a man walk past the doorway in the dining room. I immediately investigated, cutlass in hand, should the case have been that the man was of evil intention. Instead, though, I found absolutely nothing. I heard no noise, no door, and no footsteps. The man simply vanished. I dispatched the occurrence as a figment of my imagination and nothing more, but I can’t shake the feeling that this person isn’t just an evanescent contingency.
On another note, I’ve resolved to play a game of chess against myself. Each day I will make a move, doing my best to disregard my own strategies for each side. I have completed the first move for the white side, moving the king’s pawn forward two squares. Tomorrow, I will devise a strategy for the black side, and move a piece accordingly.
My research into the dark arts and the undead has become fairly extensive. Never did I know that such powerful knowledge existed within my father’s grasp. It’s almost as if the deeper I go into this subject, the more beneficial and potent it appears. It is becoming increasingly difficult to resist the temptation to attempt such sorcery, and even harder to stop reading about it. Every page I read, the benefits seem to become greater and the risks seem to become smaller. The thought tickles my brain of my father once being a great necromancer, possessing scores of undead at his command. As amusing as the thought was, I dismissed it to continue my studies.

Entry 5 (2 days later)

Charles arrived today with the weekly set of supplies. I witnessed one of only a handful of times when Charles broke his edifice of nonchalance. Though he shed no tears, I could see in his face a sincere look of sadness when I told him of my father’s death. Charles and my father had always been close, and Charles always felt a sense of debt towards him. Back when my father was first constructing the manor, he recognized the need for a supplier, so he hired a man of little means in an attempt to at least bring one man out of the grinding poverty that is so common in these times. That young fellow was Charles. So my father dressed him up, gave him an on-grounds home, a few effects and a carriage with which to transport food stuffs and other necessary supplies. After a few years, Charles was able to move into a home in the town at which he garnered the supplies. Always an honest, noble and kind person, Charles became our family’s only friend. Though he stands as the sole link to the outside world and the key to the prison doors of the estate, I couldn’t leave this place. I couldn’t leave my father. He means too much to me, his memory means too much to me.
We spoke for an hour or so, sharing a lunch before he returned to his home. After he departed, I returned to the study. I have been absolutely engrossed in the aforementioned fable. The young boy and his sister were taken to a castle and then killed by the lord of the manor, believing that they would rebel against him later in their lives. Or so he thinks. In a twist of fate, the boy lived and was whisked away by a seer. Not even the legends of my youth can compare to this compelling tale. I lie awake at night, anxious to know what will happen next.